Chapter Six

Mistwalker

Her brother’s sleepy words caught her at the door. “Inerys?”

And here she thought she’d been quiet. One of the creaking floor boards upstairs must have given her away. It wouldn’t be the first time . . .

Sighing through her nose, she pivoted on a heel. “Vidaar, it’s early. You should still be in bed.”

He stood behind her, rubbing his droopy eyes with one hand. In the other, he carried the black and red blanket Nan had knit for him a few years prior. Funny, she’d never seen him use it. He’d hidden it away for years, though she was never quite sure why. Perhaps he didn’t like the color. Regardless, it was a beautiful thing.

“You should be too,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured, which wasn’t entirely untrue. Her bloody stitches had itched something fierce. Had it not been for the bindings around them, she would have scratched them open.

He studied her a moment and though his eyes were still bleary, there was something unsettlingly intrusive about them.

“You’re going into the forest, aren’t you?”

She grimaced.

“Only for a little,” she admitted. There was no sense in lying to the child, “I won’t be long, I promise.”

He shuffled on his feet, unconvinced. For a moment, he seemed to be debating something. His free hand fidgeted, the other holding his blanket in a near white-knuckle hold. When she noticed, she frowned and knit her brow.

“Are you all right?” She asked, wondering if he’d had another nightmare.

Without a word, he padded up to her and wrapped his arms around her middle. The gesture gave her pause and slowly, she laid her hands on his back. He remained there, squeezing as though she might dissipate into the mists themselves at any moment. Nightmares often chased him from sleep, but this one seemed to be a particularly nasty one.

“Would you like me to tuck you in again?” She asked.

His eyes were bright with unshed tears when he pulled back enough to nod and he took the hand she offered him without protest. Blanket dragging behind him, she led him back upstairs on silent feet. She didn’t want to wake Nan. Not only because of the early hour, but her own line of questioning. Neither one of them had seen her arm yet and she wanted to keep it that way. If Nan discovered it, she wouldn’t let her leave either. Not without a fuss.

“When are you coming back?” He asked in a small voice.

“Soon,” she said as she tucked the plush blankets in around him, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

~*~

Minding the narrow game path ahead, Inerys kept a weather eye on the surrounding wood. Today, it was almost too quiet. Since she’d arrived, she hadn’t seen a single tree stir. This far into the forest, they would have been scuttling along the rocky slopes on spindly legs behind her, rearranging themselves as they stirred the habitual fog. One could never trust them, which was why hounds who hunted the forest knew to mark the crags instead.

In the Wilds, they were the only constant. Whatever magic laid claim to these woods had an affinity for deceiving the mind of the unwary and even she wasn't wholly immune to the effects, regardless of her Adai heritage. Her mother had taught her early on that ignoring the forest’s antics was the key to surviving its embrace.

Sighing through her nose, she negotiated the hazardous terrain and tangled roots with a practiced ease. She kept her steps light and her ears open, straining for the smallest of sounds among the uneasy silence. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Alaric she wasn’t here to hunt, but she had still brought her bow and knife. She’d have been a fool otherwise. This wasn’t her first journey into the Wilds, but it could easily be her last, for she knew she wasn’t the only predator stalking the mists. A good hunter recognized this. Preserving her life at the cost of a few torn stitches was a price she was more than willing to pay.

Regardless of heritage, most died within their first or second expedition. Either due to being underprepared, or overconfident. Sometimes both. Hunting along the Fringe was relatively easy for those wise enough to respect the forest and her boundaries, but few knew where those boundaries were. Venture too deep into the Fringe and the trees could easily shroud the trail. To those with common sense, the dense curtain of fog a few miles in was usually a good indication they’d gone too far. However, it was then the forest’s tricks were at their most dangerous. It was easy to chase down a shadow mistaking it for prey, only to lose one’s way and end up a meal to something more cunning or fall into some hidden ravine. There was a certain aura to the air she was convinced the purebloods couldn’t sense.

Hounds, like herself, knew to take the deeper trails slowly and always keep their wits about them until they were well and truly beyond the forest’s edge. Some even carried talismans gifted by the Sorcerer's themselves, but such items were rare and seldom given freely, contract or no. As much as Inerys admired the Guild, she never fully trusted those beneath its banner. Her contract with them allowed her to scrounge out a decent living and without them, she’d likely have to resort to less desirable trades, but they always made her skin crawl and her arcane intuition itch.

At the top of a hill, she paused, glanced back over her shoulder. Light filtered in through the canopy where it could, illuminating the thick vegetation in uneven patches. Behind her, the day had well and truly begun. Ahead, the world plunged into eternal night. A perpetual fog crept between the trees, so thick in places, Inerys could no longer see her feet, let alone the path she walked. It was through her Sense alone that she found her way, marking the game trail in a manner she didn’t wholly understand. Still, her Sense had never led her astray and she wouldn’t question it now.

She simply focused on the task at hand.

Though this route was still fairly new to her, she found her way with relative ease. A week prior, she’d discovered a healthy creek bisecting a fresh game trail. From what she could tell, it was yet untouched by any of her associates and she wanted to take the time to survey it properly before she plundered its forbidden treasures. She hadn’t lingered long, but she was certain she’d spied firelilies among the rocks along the riverbank. She was no expert, but she knew enough to mark them as manifestations of Primal Essence and thus, invaluable to the Guild. If she returned with a live specimen, there was no telling how much they’d pay her.

Perhaps enough to comfortably afford a few more of their books after she padded out her trust . . .

Eccentric though they may be, the Sorcerers possessed a wealth of knowledge few had the opportunity to grasp. Inerys had learned much from the old books her great grandmother had passed down through the family, but a part of her had always craved more, much like Vidaar. Evidently, curiosity ran in the family.

Thus far, she had only been able to afford a single copy from the Guild’s core materials: the Initiate’s Guide to Primal Essence and Identification, and already, it had proved invaluable to both her pocket and her practical knowledge. She had no intention of joining the Guild itself as a student, but practicing on her own was a worthwhile endeavor she was eager to explore. If she could hone her Sense or develop her connection to one of the Essences, perhaps she might learn to survive the heart of the Wilds themselves. There was no telling what secrets the forest possessed or what she might discover. If there was truly a world beyond the Wilds, perhaps she could take Vidaar there someday.

She tried not to allow such thoughts to distract her as she neared the creek in question. It undoubtedly served as a main water source for the Wild’s inhabitants and she didn’t want to accidentally stumble across one due to her own inattention. Her mother would have scolded her for harboring such fantasies in the first place. Once she returned the precious flower to the Guild unharmed and well paid, then she would celebrate and not a moment before.

Perching herself among a small collection of crags, she took a moment to survey her surroundings. To listen. Despite seeing nothing, her Sense warned her she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t being watched, she knew, but something had drawn close. Inerys steeled herself and slowly drew her knife on instinct. With luck, she could remain still and wait out whatever it was, but if worse came to worst, she would defend herself.

The forest around her grew quiet. Too quiet, as if all the birds and bugs had been struck dead at once. The creek itself seemed muted, somehow, and a shiver seeded at the base of her spine. Her skin all but prickled, but she held herself still. She was fairly certain the forest wasn’t responsible for the sudden shift. It waited with baited breath alongside her.

As the minutes crawled by, her Sense grew increasingly apprehensive. Her instincts urged her to run, to flee and not look back. The primal part of her mind practically begged her and for a moment, she almost bent to the will of her flight instinct. However, the more rational, experienced half, knew doing so would spell her undoing, her end. Panic would set the stage and fear would get her killed. So, she remained rooted in place, still as the stone around her.

Something shifted in the mist ahead and Inerys sucked in a breath.

The stranger was more spirit than woman. Her long ears protruded far beyond the bounds of her skull and came to fine points beneath what Inerys realized were stag’s horns. Ratty cords of black hair hung from the ivory tines, wet and limp. Not from rain, but blood. It stained her clothes, her skin . . . her teeth.

As she stumbled out from the undergrowth toward the creek, Inerys shrunk back. Her skin was so pale, she wondered if the woman had been born of the mists themselves. She cradled her left arm, her breaths ragged and it wasn’t until she fell to her knees beside the spring, that Inerys noticed the shaft sunk into the back of her shoulder.

She wavered, on the verge of pitching forward and collapsing entirely, but somehow managed to hold herself steady after legs gave out. The stranger sat, trembling, among the ferns for a long moment, her uneven breaths filling the silence of the world around them. Inerys didn’t dare move. Were this woman anyone else, she would have revealed herself and offered to aid the woman back to the nearest city state. However, her Sense convinced her otherwise. She knew it was best to leave the woman alone. To die or to continue on her way, Inerys didn’t care. In a way, she felt guilty, but this woman was dangerous.

Carefully, she began to shift her weight and climb down the back of her stone perch. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the woman, careful to maintain line of sight. When she shifted her weight back to lower herself down the back of the crag, pain radiated through her arm and down her wrist. There was a sharp tug as a few of her stitches ripped free. Warmth ebbed along her bindings and she grimaced. Alaric would give her an earful.

Then, she heard the stranger suck in a shuddering breath. Paniced, Inerys glanced across the spring. The stranger stiffened and her eyes snapped up, fixated on the huntress’ position. Inerys’ blood ran cold and a wave of nausea passed over her. For a heartbeat, something rang in her ears, a low, tickling frequency. Then, her muscles went taught and suddenly, her body was no longer her’s to control.

The woman barked something in a strange tongue Inerys could place, one her body obeyed without question.

While the tone itself was femanine, it was warped and sharp. The command was absolute and Inerys found herself climbing down the stone and rounding it in direct view of the injured woman. Internally, she screamed, thrashing against her own body while outwardly, it remained utterly still.

She issued another command in that strange language.

Again, Inerys’ body obeyed.

The woman rose on shaky knees, still holding her wounded arm. Her amber eyes blazed like twin embers in the night, fixing Inerys with a glare so ripe with hunger, she thought she were facing down some ancient god. The woman’s face, though beautiful, was feral and bleeding freely from several open wounds. Fangs stood out in sharp contrast to her painted lips and long, narrow ears came to fine points above her hairline.

With another command, Inery’s boots planted themselves a few feet away from the woman. A low, inhuman growl rose from the woman’s throat, reminding the huntress of some mountain cat. She shuddered, barely in control of her own lungs. If she could have plunged her dagger into her own heart, she would have. Anything to escape the clutches of this otherworldly horror. But she couldn’t. Her arms refused to move.

She’d become a prisoner in her own body.

For a moment, the woman eyed her with something akin to disgust, as if Inerys were some lanky rabbit that had been presented to her in place of a king’s feast. Then, the sentiment was overwhelmed by a familiar, unfathomable hunger. The woman had her fangs buried in Inerys’ throat before she had fully registered the fact the woman had moved. She was held steady by the woman’s iron grip and what felt like claws burrowed deep into the flesh of her upper arm. She was sure her bones would rupture and her spine would snap under the sheer force borne down upon her.

Fire shot through her veins and through the compulsion, Inerys screamed.

~*~

Ruslan readied another arrow as he sprinted through the forest, only to slide to a halt when a scream pierced the silence of the wood. Not Ezra’s, but someone else’s. This far from Tanuzet, his hearing was left bare and open, but it was a risk he’d been willing to take. Still, the thought of being susceptible to the Matriarch’s Voice unsettled him, but not as much as the scream itself had. Had the humans settled so close to the border? He thought he had more time, more ground left to capture Ezra before she reached the human world. Cursing, he supposed he would find out soon enough. He launched himself forward with such force, a small crater was left in his wake.

His reinforced body propelled him forward despite the burden placed upon his Soul, but it wasn’t the same. Without his spiritual channels free to strengthen him with a proper Technique, he was too slow.

Too infuriatingly slow.

Inside the Veil, his Awareness was almost non-existent, yet he retained just enough to sense Ezra up ahead. He vaulted over a collection of gnarled roots and dove through a hollow in the tangled branches beyond. Priming his physical channels, he hurled himself onto a low hanging branch thirty feet from the ground overlooking a wide creek.

He sighted his target and let a second silver arrow fly.

This time, it struck home.

The force knocked the Matriarch forward and she dropped her prey. She stumbled a few feet, turning to face Ruslan in disbelief. Her good arm trembled, fingers stained red as she held it in front of her face. Half of the Fullsilver arrowhead protruded from the space between her breasts, skewering her through from behind. A dark stain spread across her chest and, at last, the Matriarch collapsed.

Ruslan lost a shuddering breath. He wouldn’t allow himself to celebrate just yet, so he deftly hopped down from his vantage and crept closer. The Matriarch lay, unmoving and bloody, yet his attention was drawn to her victim. A woman, no older than twenty, convulsed in a heap a few feet away. Pale yellow hair spilled out from a blue hood, tipped red where the curls met the blood-soaked earth. Her bow was pitched beneath her, one of her hands clawing the moist earth in her strain.

He knelt beside her, his panic rising. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all. The humans were supposed to be safely tucked away within the Veil's heart, not wandering the forests. His oath compelled him to help her, but he wondered if slitting her throat would be the kinder gesture. He took a moment to inspect her neck where Ezra’s fangs had been ripped away when his shot landed. It was a bloody mess, but he was fairly certain she wouldn’t bleed out immediately. Vampires were always careful not to bleed their prey prematurely.

If he could retrieve his supplies from his saddle bags, perhaps he could patch her up enough to seek proper help-

Tanuzet burst through the trees behind him, snarling. She flew a tight circle around the glade, with Ayduin and her copper on her tail and landed a short distance away. The wyvern inspected the Matriarch’s body with an air of caution and upon confirming she was no longer a threat, turned her attention to Ruslan. For a moment, she studied the pair, then slowly lowered herself to her belly.

Ayduin leapt from her wyvern’s back before he’d fully settled, her eyes wide, bow still in hand. She knelt beside the Matriarch’s corpse, her lips thin as she glanced toward them.

“Was she bitten?”

He nodded.

“Alive?”

“For now. Bring me my medical bag.”

Ayduin hesitated, perhaps recognizing the same implications Ruslan himself had just realized. The pair shared a knowing look. If they saved this woman, there was a possibility she might Turn. Between the Matriarch’s venom and her potent blood in such close proximity to an open wound, it was all but assured. Ruslan couldn’t tell how much of the blood was the woman’s, and how much was Ezra’s. The two were a bloody mess.

He found himself torn between his oath and own moral constraints. If Ezra’s blood had made it into the woman’s system, legally, she was now the Matriarch’s heir and therefore fell within the Talhavar Oath of Protection. Even so, there was no guarantee she would survive the process. She was human. The burden of a vampiric inheritance might tear her apart from the inside. Killing her here and now would be a mercy.

Locked in painful indecision, he set his jaw and nodded.

What choice did he have?

“The medical bag. Now.”

Her lips thin, Ayduin obeyed.

Presenting her wing, Tanuzet allowed the woman to climb up to the saddle, eyes keen and senses honed upon the woman in Ruslan’s arms. He sensed her disapproval, but there was little he could do. This wasn’t a decision he made lightly, but one he made for all their sakes. With the Sanguin Court in shambles after the loss of not one, but two Arcs, there was no telling how the soul survivor might retaliate if Ruslan left a potential heir to die. By attempting to save her, he was protecting them all. If she died on the way to proper medical attention, the blame could not be placed on him and his men directly.

Upon retrieving his supplies, Ayduin hopped down and rifled through the pack for the proper provisions. Ruslan slipped his hands beneath the spasming woman and cradled her against his chest. Gently, he moved toward Tanuzet and rested her against the wyvern’s carefully positioned wing. He lowered her hood and brushed her hair to one side, then motioned for Ayduin.

“Mind her head for me,” he said.

Nodding, she set his satchel down and moved to crouch beside him.

With utmost care, he cleaned the wound as best he could and quelled the bleeding with a sterile cloth. His partner watched in silence, brow furrowed as she held the poor girl steady. He saw his own apprehension mirrored in her gaze. He wasn’t entirely sure the woman would survive the flight, but honor bound him nonetheless.

“What now?” Ayduin asked when he drew back, finished.

“Now, we take her to the Sages and pray this wasn’t a mistake,” he said.