Fanyaleth Lasgalen woke with a start from her moss-cradled sleep. The tall cedars of the forest waved above her in an invisible breeze, and she stared up at them from the green depths of her ferny bower. Something had echoed through her dreams—a strange, mournful call, a shimmer of magic…
Sitting, she lifted her palm and called a blue sphere of foxfire, then sent it to hover overhead. She’d been wandering the Erynvorn for three days, and was wary of encountering the strange creatures said to roam the depths of the forest. But her light revealed nothing dangerous—no insidious spawn of the Void that could only be vanquished by the power of a warrior-mage. No red-eyed dire wolves skulking in the underbrush, no scaled drakes or poison-fanged basilisks lurking, ready to pounce.
Not that Fanya was sure the latter creatures existed beyond the tales told to Dark Elf children to warn them to approach the Erynvorn with caution. If at all.
She’d had no choice, however. The prophecy spoken at her birth had commanded her to enter the dark bastion of the forest on the doublemoon after her seventeenth birthday. Since ignoring the Oracles was a sure path to madness and ruin, here she was, sleeping in the bracken, picking twigs from her long silver hair, and spending her days foraging for berries and mushrooms.
That shiver went through the air again, and Fanya rose, half crouching beneath the huge moss-covered log that had given her shelter. She dismissed her foxfire and took up her bow, which she’d laid close to hand. Quickly, she drew a sharp-tipped arrow from her quiver.
Something was coming toward her through the trees. Silver flashed, and she glimpsed a regal set of antlers. Then the creature was upon her, its graceful form soaring over her hiding place with a mighty leap.
As the White Hart sailed past, it sent her a look from one dark, liquid eye, as though it were trying to warn her. She caught her breath at its majesty, the luminous magic it trailed.
Then it was gone, and whatever was crashing through the underbrush after it burst through the trees. A figure on horseback, sword at his side, net in his hand. She hesitated a moment—but no one with pure intent would hunt the White Hart.
Fanya raised her bow, aiming for the rider’s shoulder. She wanted to wound, not kill.
Her arrow flew—just as his net descended over her, fouling her bow and pulling her arms against her sides with its weight. A cry of pain made her smile grimly, even as she twisted within the net. She might be snared, but her arrow had met its mark.
“Cruel beast,” the rider said, his words oddly accented. “How dare you wound me?”
He brought his mount to stop in front of her and slid down one-handed, clutching the arrow shaft protruding from the meat of his upper arm. Not quite what Fanya had intended, but close enough.
“How dare you hunt the White Hart?” she replied hotly. “It is a sacred creature.”
“But I’ve caught you, despite that.” The hunter grinned, though his smile turned to a grimace of pain as he leaned forward. “Now you owe me my heart’s desire.”
Belatedly, Fanya realized she was facing a mortal man. His oddly short hair should have alerted her, his strange human eyes and round-tipped ears—just as in the tales her people told. It had been a long time since a human had been spotted in the Erynvorn, however. Clearly, the White Hart had brought him.
“Let me go,” she said, forcing one elbow through the net. Given time, she’d be able to free herself, but it would be much easier if he’d simply remove it.
“Not until you grant my wish.” Despite his bold words, he ended with a small grunt of pain.
She narrowed her eyes. “Free me, and I’ll pull my arrow from your arm and dress the wound.”
He glanced down at the protruding shaft, then back at her. “Although that’s a pressing need, it’s not my heart’s desire.”
“I’d think not bleeding to death on the forest floor would be anyone’s wish.”
“The injury’s not that bad.” He sent her a smile, his jaw clenched in obvious pain.
“Are all humans so foolishly stubborn? I nearly pierced your arm straight through.” She impatiently shrugged at the net covering her. “Release me, and I’ll help you.”
“You won’t run?”
She glanced at his mount, which stood patiently behind him. “You’d catch me again easily enough.”
It wasn’t quite true—he was a stranger to the forest, and she could possibly find a hole to hide in, or scale one of the huge hemlocks and disappear among the feathery treetops. But beyond the fact that she wouldn’t relish being chased through the Erynvorn, she had injured him, and could not leave him to wander.
Not to mention that the smell of his blood could call other, darker things out of the depths of the forest to menace them both.
“I’d only catch you if you didn’t transform again,” he said tersely.
Fanya blinked at him, belatedly realizing he thought she was the White Hart. Despite being the wrong gender. Still, it seemed to her advantage to say nothing and let him believe she was, indeed, that powerful, enchanted creature.
“Free me, and I will not flee from you,” she said. “I promise—and my kind do not break our word.”
He nodded, once, then stepped forward, fingers still clenched around the arrow buried in his arm. At least he was wise enough not to wrench at it. The barbed head would tear through his flesh if he tried to pull it out, making the wound far worse.
“Crouch down,” he said as he awkwardly tried to pull the net off of her, one-handed.
Her shoulders tensed and she forced herself to breathe deeply of the rich loam as she went to her knees. Should this human try to attack her again, she had the knife at her belt and her magic, although she’d never been taught the dangerous combat runes her people traditionally used in battle.
An oversight she would most certainly remedy as soon as she returned to the Moonflower Court.
The human had peeled away half the net when a long, wavering howl shivered through the forest. Fanya struggled out of the rest of the strands, fear spiking her blood while the human’s horse danced backward a few steps, eyes rolling in fright.
“What was that?” he asked, plucking at the net still wrapped about her bow.
“Direwolf. Hold still.” She stepped forward, nostrils flaring at the strange, spicy scent of him. But this was no time for distraction, no matter how strange it was to stand so close to a human.
With quick, efficient movements, she tore a larger hole in the arm of his shirt around the protruding arrow. Taking hold of the shaft in both hands, she snapped it, removing the fletched end. He winced at the movement. Then, before he could protest, she drove the arrow point through the rest of his arm and out the other side. He made a strangled sound of agony, but, impressively, didn’t cry out, even though the pain doubled him over for a moment.
She tucked her broken, bloody arrow back into her quiver, then placed her hands on either side of his arm and murmured a quick rune of healing to staunch the blood. Wide-eyed, he turned to look at her. Their gazes caught, and she blinked at his nearness.
“You are magic,” he whispered.
Then the wolf howled once more, and Fanya jerked away.
“It’s only a minor rune,” she said. “But it will help until we reach a true healer.”
She turned and plucked her bow free of the net, which he quickly folded away.
“And where will we find one of those?” He turned and scanned the forest.
“Not here—and we should go.” Though a part of her might wish to, she couldn’t abandon him in the Erynvorn. Even though he was no longer bleeding, he was still wounded. And though she wasn’t pleased at the fact that prophecy had thrust a human into her life, there was no arguing with fate.
He turned to his horse, lifted his hands to the saddle, then let out a grunt of pain.
“You’re not healed,” she said. “Only slightly mended. You must favor your arm.”
He gave her a tight nod and, face pale, mounted. As soon as he was settled, she set her hand on the horse’s side, accustoming the animal to her touch.
“I will ride with you,” she said. Then, before he could protest, she murmured a quick feather-light rune and leapt up behind him.
His mount whuffled softly, but didn’t object to her presence on its back.
“Oh.” The human turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I thought you might…”
“I told you I would not transform,” she said—which was not a complete falsehood. She couldn’t turn herself into a white deer, even if she wanted to. None of her people could change their forms, no matter what this mortal man seemed to think.
His eyebrows drew together in question, but before he could voice any objection, she prodded the horse into motion. Quickly, he swiveled to face forward and guide his mount around the mossy hollow beneath the log where she’d taken shelter.
“That way.” She pointed to the left, trying to ignore the heat of him seated before her, the musky, not-unpleasant mortal scent drifting from his shorn hair.
“How far are we going?”
It was a good question. She frowned, thinking. Certainly not all the way to Moonflower, which was a journey of nearly two doublemoons. No, they’d have to make for one of the outer courts. Nightshade was the closest, if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Some distance,” she finally answered. “We’ll have to sleep in the forest tonight.”
She would set wards, of course.
And, somehow, once he was healed, they must determine how to send him back to the mortal realm. But that was a powerful magic indeed, and one she had no hope of performing on her own.