By the time the night has fully lightened into morning, the rain has eased off and we’ve made it back to the fork in the road. Even Fabithe couldn’t argue against riding in the dark, this time, but our progress has been slow; daylight will speed things up. We should reach Oakelm before the sun begins to set again. Except that none of us have eaten or slept. Fabithe’s horse is carrying two. Every muscle in my body aches. And Oriana …
For the hundredth time, I turn to look at her. She’s slumped against Fabithe, his left arm all that’s keeping her from falling. From time to time, a shivering fit seizes her body, despite the cloak she’s wrapped in, but she makes no sound. I tried to keep her with me. I really did. But after the second time she nearly slipped off the horse, I had to let Fabithe take her.
“Is she all right?” I call.
“For now. But if she passes out completely, we’ll have no good way to carry her with us.” He pauses to let that sink in, before adding, “We’d be better off returning to Easterwood. It’s closer than the forest.”
“But we won’t be allowed in without an identification mark.”
“I could find a way.” He glances down at Oriana, expression stern. “She needs shelter and care. Not a night in the open. Unless you’re telling me you’re a healer as well as a seer – ”
“We have nowhere to go in Easterwood. Whereas I have a friend in Oakelm.”
“A real friend, or a friend from inside your head?”
“Both.” It feels surprisingly good to say that. “And she’ll help us. I swear.”
Fabithe looks at me doubtfully. Yet I was right about Oriana – he can’t deny that – and besides, we don’t have time for indecision. Maybe that’s why, after a further frowning moment, he shrugs. “If you say so.”
We keep going. When we reach the top of the next rise, Fabithe peers back over his shoulder and mutters something under his breath. I don’t recognise the language, but it’s safe to assume there were swearwords involved.
“Are they following us?” I ask. He gives me a look that says, quite clearly, I don’t answer inane questions. So I rephrase. “Who is following us?”
“Blades from the Sapphire. Northerners, too. The Sapphire lot will stop at the border, but Ifor’s men …” His free hand tightens on the reins. “They’ll be with us all the way.”
Right. Armed men from the Citadel can’t cross the border without starting a war, but presumably the Emerald won’t risk offending the might of the north. Northfell is bigger than Castellany, and certainly bigger than any of the individual territories within it.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I say tentatively. “Fewer people to chase us?”
“You might think so.” Though you’d be a fool if you did, his expression says. “But at least if they catch us while the Bluecoats are with them, they’ll have to follow due process. Take us all back to the Citadel for questioning. Whereas Ifor’s men alone … they’ll do whatever he’s told them to do. Kill us quickly. Kill us slowly. Pretend they killed us, then cart us off for torture in one of his secret prisons.”
My stomach plunges. “You can’t fight them off?”
Again, he just looks at me. This one says, You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Since that’s true enough, I don’t object to it. Instead, I square my shoulders.
“Then we’d better be quick.”
Time to go, someone agrees.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I mustn’t fail.
No. Not now. Please …
But the emotion swells in me, an emotion that isn’t my own, and I can’t keep it out.
Luthan and Isidor stand on the lake shore, facing across the water in the direction of Othitali. Behind them, the trees of Oakelm whisper in the breeze.
“Are you ready?” Isidor asks. Luthan glances at him, but can read nothing from his placid features. Her own palms are sweating, fear taking its relentless hold. She doubted her ability to come this far, yet here she is: dressed in the thin white robe of the making, her knife at her belt. Earlier she prepared that knife, sharpening it until it could cleave a falling hair, flaming the blade until it glowed red-hot. Now there is nothing left between her and the act that will singlehandedly determine the course of her entire future.
“Yes,” she says. It sounds unconvincing, even to her own ears. “I am ready.”
“Good.” Isidor looks grave. “Luthan … the laws of our kind are all that distinguish us from the Otherpower. They were laid down long ago, and they have endured. Before you attempt the transition, you must swear that you will follow them, now and always.”
Luthan knows what is expected of her; they have discussed it often enough. She stands straight, taking a deep breath.
“As a mage, I will never use the blood of another.” The words come easily, drummed into her over many a night. “I will never harm the powerless. I will not harm another mage except in self-defence. I will not seek personal gain or advancement. And I will use my power only in pursuit of the greater good. I swear to follow these laws above all other considerations.” By now her heart is pounding at the enormity of the task ahead.
“You must understand what these laws mean,” Isidor says softly. “After today, temptation will always be waiting just the other side of a heartbeat, with nothing to keep you from it but the strength of your own convictions. Yet if you break the rules we have set for ourselves, just once, there will be no going back.”
He puts his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. After a moment, he gives a solemn nod. “I believe, after all, I have taught you well enough,” he says, and takes a step backward. “Now go.”
Without a word, Luthan obeys. She finds it hard to share his belief; she doesn’t trust her convictions to be strong enough. Yet this is what her life is for. If she doesn’t go through with it, no purpose will be left to her. So how can she turn back?
The place she has selected is a clearing, some distance from the lake shore. As she emerges from the shelter of the trees, the rising wind tugs her hair free of its rough knot and whips it about her face. Breathless, she drops to her knees in the centre of the open space. Above her, the sky darkens, the clouds closing in. A storm is on the way.
The knife waits at her belt. The hilt is cold and slick in her nervous palm; it makes the half-healed marks left by her fingernails ache. She grips it, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and lifts it up to her throat. Yet at the touch of the chill metal, she almost drops it in the dirt.
Great One, she prays, tightening her grip until her skin is taut against her bones, please … But she can find no words to complete the supplication. Instead, she sets the point of the knife at the very edge of her birthstone, and closes her eyes.
You must do it quickly, Isidor has said more than once, else you will not do it at all. As she hesitates, not at all beckons to her with all the seduction of a warm fire, a soft bed, safety. It is dismay at her own weakness that impels her hand inward, driving the blade into her flesh.
A white flash of pain sears her vision. The knife trembles in her grasp; she clasps her second hand over the first to steady it. Quickly or not at all … She grits her teeth and keeps going. Her whole body shakes. Blood runs down over her hands, sticky and slippery at the same time. She mustn’t lose her grip. If she severs a tendon – if she breaks through a blood vessel – she shudders, and the knife twitches. Don’t think about that. She keeps the blade as shallow as she can, feeling her way with it, digging with the point. Her head throbs, beating in time to the ringing in her ears and the clenching of her stomach. But if she fails now, she will never find the courage to make another attempt.
A cry of protest wells up in her, every nerve and muscle straining for release. She clamps her jaws together and tastes sweet iron. Blood in her mouth, blood on her hands, blood soaking thick and dark into her white robe – but the birthstone remains intact. In desperation, she digs the blade deeper, and something tears.
Something tears –
The knife drops from her numb fingers, to land among dead leaves. Beside it is a strip of skin attached to a small dark object, which fades away even as she looks at it. Her birthstone. She is free. And around her …
Around her, suddenly, the world is alive with power. She can feel it in the blood spilling down her chest, the potential for change, the latent possibilities.
Thunder rumbles in the sky above her. In her veins, the blood sings an answer to it. The knowledge of exactly who she is surges through her, filling her with doubt but also a kind of wild wonder. Here and now, she could do anything … anything at all.
She closes her eyes, and rides the storm.
I am –
I was –
“Alyssia.”
That answers that question. Yet the memory of power still lingers in my blood, a reckless kind of feeling that I don’t entirely trust. I was gone a long time. I can’t even remember what I was doing before Luthan’s anxiety pulled me away from myself …
Escaping.
I jolt upright in the saddle, to find Fabithe watching me. I get the impression he’s said my name several times already.
“Are they much closer?” I ask breathlessly.
“You weren’t gone that long.”
I suppose not. Still, I could do without seeing as well as everything else. The practical aspect of it was just about manageable in my old life, when the most dangerous thing I ever did was catch a bus. But now, zoning out for even half a minute could mean falling off a horse. Getting stabbed. Being caught by vengeful soldiers.
We pick up speed again, mud splashing up around us, a breeze gusting splatters of moisture-laden air into our faces. After a while, Fabithe calls across to me.
“Was it your friend? The one in the forest?”
“Yes.” Given his previous comments about blood magic, it’s probably best if I don’t share the details, so I simply add, “There’s a storm coming.”
No answer. I glance at him and he nods, tight-lipped, as if I’ve told him all he needed to know and the conversation is now over.
“Well?” I ask. “Is that good or bad?”
“Could be either. It’ll not stop them – ” he jerks his head back the way we came – “but it might hinder them. Of course, it might hinder us, too.” He looks down at Oriana. “And I’d not give much for her chances if it does.”
She mumbles something I can’t make out. The cloak slips off one shoulder, revealing the blood leaking from beneath the makeshift bandage. Fabithe’s frown deepens, but he tugs the fabric back into place and answers, “No. You’re safe.”
I grip the reins so tightly that the edges cut into my palms. “Let’s pick up the pace.”
We spur our horses forward. Time passes in a blur of jolting discomfort. When we crest a rise to see Easterwood’s boundary wall ahead, Fabithe glances over his shoulder again. “They’re gaining on us.”
As if in answer, I hear a growl of thunder. Luthan’s storm is here. Somewhere, she is becoming a mage. But I can’t afford to think about that now. I don’t want to get dragged back into her head. Not when we’re so close to being caught, not when every second will count.
Rather than head for the city gate, we leave the road and set off at a full gallop along the curve of the boundary wall, past the ramshackle huts and refuse heaps that encircle it. The sky is dark, now, that special kind of storm-dark that seems illuminated from within. Lightning claws across it, followed by another grumble of thunder. And then, as though the bottoms of the clouds have all fallen away at once, it begins to rain again: hard, fast drops that sting my cheeks and fill the air with their hiss. I can barely see more than a few steps in front of me.
“Nearly there!” Fabithe yells at me. “Be ready!”
I don’t know what he wants me to be ready for. It’s all I can do to stay on the horse at this speed, in this weather. I’m only clinging on because my muscles have seized up; the difficulty is going to be getting off again. But I don’t say any of that. I just keep pace with him until, finally, the twisted shapes of trees loom ahead of us. The forest. We made it.
Fabithe reins in his horse and says something to Oriana. I can’t make it out over the clamour of thunder and wind and rain, but in response, her eyelids flicker open. A few more words, and she nods. He dismounts, then lifts her down after him. As soon as her feet touch the ground, her knees buckle and she drops into the mud. Fabithe swears, but leaves her there while he battles with the clasps holding his saddlebag in place.
Come on, Alyssia. Don’t just sit there. Forcing my cramped limbs into action, I scramble down from my own horse’s back and stumble-run to kneel at Oriana’s side. I touch her face, but she’s out cold. Still, the rise and fall of her chest is reassuring. Wiping mud from her cheek, I look up at Fabithe. “What are you doing?”
“Decoy.” He turns, bag in hand, a grimly satisfied smile on his face. “Should work, if we’re quick enough. The rain’ll not take long to wash away our tracks. The northerners’ll follow the horses.” As he says the last word, he slaps his horse hard on the rump to get it moving, then does the same for mine. “It’s a chance, at least.”
Thunder and lightning crack together – and at that, the horses bolt, disappearing into the dimness of the storm. We couldn’t catch them again now, even if we wanted to.
“What about Oriana?”
He dumps the bag beside me, then picks her up. The movement jolts a sound from her: a soft whimper, like someone desperate not to be heard. Fabithe looks down at her, and I see something unguarded in his face – regret? concern? – before his jaw sets and he turns away. “We need to get moving.”
At a jog, we set off into the shadows of the forest. As we run, I send out my thoughts in search of Luthan. I need to cross into her head again, find out where she is so that I can lead us to her. Yet now I want it to happen, she isn’t there. I can’t feel that silver connection to her, not like I can with Fabithe and –
And Oriana.
Both of them are there, now, at the back of my mind. It’s as though meeting them, seeing them face to face, has bound me to them more strongly than before. If I lose Fabithe or Oriana in the darkness, I’ll be able to find them again. But Luthan … I haven’t met her yet. And so, no matter how I try, I can’t reach her. Not on purpose.
“Do you know Oakelm well?” I ask Fabithe.
“Never been here before. What good would it have done me?”
“Right. Well, there’s a lake somewhere in the forest. We need to find it.”
“Because …?”
“That’s where we’ll find help.” Luthan and her father live on an island in the lake. If we head in that direction, surely we’ll find her sooner or later.
“Fine,” Fabithe says. “We’ll follow the river upstream.”
“River?” The artificial darkness created by the storm is rapidly deepening into true night. I can barely see the ground in front of my feet, let alone a river.
“Yes. Listen.”
I obey him, trying to unpick the different layers of sound. Rain pattering down through the branches. The dying wind stirring the leaves. Some kind of bird calling – maybe a leaf-owl, Luthan has always liked those. A distant shout, which makes me shiver … and, finally, the rush of running water. Yet I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It’s just a sound in the air.
“This way.” Without hesitation, Fabithe changes his course, angling further to the right. “It’s the river that passes by the south wall of Easterwood. It comes out of the forest and flows east to the sea. So if there’s a lake here, it will be in the other direction.”
I follow him. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for the tangled old trees to begin thinning out – and shortly after that, we emerge onto the bank of a wide river. The rain has stopped; clouds scud across the sky, releasing glints of silver-blue light from the two waxing moons to dance on the surface of the water. Fabithe looks at the thin strip of ground between river and treeline with some regret.
“Far too visible. Better stick to cover.”
We retreat back under the overhanging branches and turn right, in the opposite direction to the current. I soon understand his regret. Out on the riverbank, there’s moonlight to see by – albeit patchy – and bare mud to walk on. After the journeys I’ve made over the past two days, I never thought I’d feel nostalgic about mud. But as it turns out, there’s one thing worse than mud, and that’s mud full of roots and overrun with brambles. I don’t know how he can get through this carrying Oriana. The heavy bag dragging at my shoulders and snagging on every twig we pass is bad enough.
We trudge on. My eyes are sore. My feet are surprisingly heavy. Branches keep hitting me in the face, but I don’t have the energy to stop them. Every so often, I glimpse human shapes out of the corners of my eyes, but when I turn my head there’s only rustling trees and shadows. We’re being chased by ghosts. Either that, or I’m just really … really …
“Wake up, Alyssia.” I’ve walked into something solid. Fabithe. He’s stopped, looking back over his shoulder at me. I blink at him.
“We’ve reached a fork,” he says.
“What?”
“In the river. We have to decide which way to go.”
“Um.” Stay with it, Alyssia. I move to his side, peering through the trees. Sure enough, the river splits in two – or rather, this is where two smaller streams come together. The lake could be up either of them. Think, damn it. Fabithe said the river flows east. We’re on the north bank, traveling west. Either we keep following the nearer tributary, or we have to somehow cross the water to follow the other one, which appears to take a sharp turn south …
I have no idea. I’m too exhausted to make sense of anything.
A long, swooping whistle sounds, somewhere in the distance. A signal. People are chasing us. I don’t have time to be tired.
When Luthan … I try to grab the thought, but it slips away. Useless brain. I’m close to panic. I glance at Fabithe, expecting an impatient glare, but he isn’t even looking at me. Head bowed, he’s drawing the cloak closer around Oriana’s body with a gentleness completely at odds with everything else he’s shown her so far. And somehow, that small act of kindness brings the memory to the forefront of my mind fully formed.
When Luthan and her father travel back and forth between their home and the uninhabited lands to the south, they cross two bridges.
“We take the right-hand fork,” I say, dizzy with relief. “We keep going west.”
“All right.” He shifts Oriana to a more comfortable position in his arms, and we walk on. The trees begin to get closer to the water’s edge. The river narrows. I keep trying to connect with Luthan, somewhere in my thoughts, but without success. Finally, the blisters on my heels become sore enough that I have to stop in a small clearing, leaning against a tree and lifting each foot in turn, just so I can snatch a moment’s respite from the pressure.
“How much further?” Fabithe asks.
“Er … not much.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The truth is, I don’t. All the same, I force myself to sound certain. “We’re where we need to be. How’s Oriana?”
There’s a pause. Then he says, in a different tone of voice, “Bleeding again. It’s soaked right through the fabric.”
Now that I have a justifiable reason to panic, I feel quite calm, my fuzzy cotton-wool thoughts sharpening into something approaching clarity. “How long do we have?”
“She can’t go much further. You need to find your friend, and soon.”
I’m trying. I really am. But without the strengthened connection that seems to come from meeting one of them –
Maybe I’m overthinking it. They pull me in all the time, don’t they? Whoever’s experiencing the strongest emotions, I told Dr Whyte. But there’s more to it than that – he touched on it himself. Often, their experiences resonate with mine. So if Luthan and I were in a similar situation …
All right. We’re both somewhere in the forest – I guess that’s a start. Dark. Cold. Rain still dripping from the trees. The brush of a breeze against her skin, the smell of damp leaves in every breath. She was caught up in the discovery of power, the last time I saw her, but at some point I assume she’ll come down from that high. And what then? I imagine it will be like waking up the morning after any life-changing experience. She’ll be tired. Bewildered. Trying to think back through what happened, and understand –
Luthan opens her eyes, but sees nothing. It takes her a little time to make sense of the shadows, to see subtle shadings of deeper black in what’s above her: the pattern made by branches against an overcast night sky. Then the clouds shift, and the misshapen blue half-circle of Ikotha comes into view, accompanied by a scattering of stars.
What happened earlier seems little more than a hallucination. There was pain, she knows that much. There was searing self-knowledge. Yet all she has now is a faint, itchy recollection like a new scab. Even all that blood has gone, washed away by the rain, soaked into the earth. Maybe it never happened. Maybe –
She lifts a hand to her throat. Already the wound where her birthstone used to be is healing, leaving only a round patch of scar tissue. That scar will never fade, no matter how much blood she sheds to rid herself of it; it is the mark of what she is, a warning to the world.
It was real.
Scrambling to her feet, she straightens her mud-spattered robe. Her hair is dirty and dripping; she rakes through it with her fingers before knotting it back from her face once more. Then she retrieves her knife from the forest floor and leaves the clearing. She has been gone long enough. Isidor will want to know the outcome.
She hasn’t walked far before she sees a flicker of firelight through the trees up ahead. Isidor? No, Isidor is waiting at the lake shore. Someone else. A stranger.
Alarm leaps inside her; her fingertips brush her throat once more. If anyone finds her now, in this condition, they will kill her. And she has nothing to cover her scar …
As if in answer, her blood surges, reminding her that she has no need of anything except the power she carries in her own veins. And she remembers words that Isidor said to her, once: People distrust a concealed throat. When you are to be among others, it is best to prove you have nothing to hide.
She raises her knife and presses a finger against the tip of the blade. As her skin splits, she closes her eyes and draws on the power contained in the resulting drop of blood. A birthstone at her throat, no scar, no telltale sign … the illusion will be all that keeps her safe from now on. When it’s complete, she slips the knife into her belt and creeps closer to the campfire.
Now she can hear voices: two of them, a man’s and a girl’s. She softens her footfalls further, stealing across the sodden leaf-carpet in the direction of the sound.
“… can’t stay here forever,” the man is saying. “We can’t keep chasing your visions while she bleeds her life away and Ifor’s men track us down.”
“It’ll be all right,” the girl answers. “I swear, we’ll find someone to help us.”
Luthan can see them, now, through the gaps between the trees. The man, at least. He’s standing beside the fire, arms folded, scanning his surroundings. He carries a long sword strapped to his back: a warrior, then, or a guard, although he wears no uniform. The girl is closer, kneeling on the ground, leaning over something. Luthan can’t see anything of her except the dark bob of her hair.
They are not dangerous – at least, not to her. Now she’s calmer, Luthan remembers that. The protections Isidor has laid around Othitali are such that anyone who means the two of them harm is soon lost along the changing forest paths. She would never have stumbled across these people if they had any intention of hurting her. So if they need help, then maybe …
She edges closer. Pressed up against the last tree trunk between her and the clearing, she peers round it and, for the first time, sees what’s lying on the ground between the two strangers. Another girl, limp and unmoving. Her tousled red hair spills across the earth, and her bandaged upper back and shoulders are liberally stained with blood. Luthan is gripped by a physical urge so intense that her vision blurs. This is what Isidor meant, then: temptation, just the other side of a heartbeat. There’s power in that blood, so close, so easy … she could take it as quickly as plucking a leaf from a tree …
Stop it. You’re better than this. You don’t need her blood. Luthan digs her nails into her palms, but she can still feel the seductive pull of it. Despite herself, she takes a half step forward. A twig cracks beneath her foot. Panicking now, she drags her gaze away from the red-haired girl and finds herself staring into the dark-haired girl’s eyes –
I gasp, the world spinning around me. It’s like being on a fairground ride: a blur of colour and sound, a sickening up-and-down motion. I can hardly breathe. I brace my arms against my knees and concentrate on sucking in air until the pounding in my head subsides.
For an instant, I saw myself through her eyes. Just an instant, and it was as though my brain exploded. As though I pushed up to some inviolable limit, got too close to a naked flame and was burned.
“Alyssia,” Fabithe snaps. “Did you hear what I said? She can’t go much further.”
“It’s fine.” My voice sounds like a stranger’s in my ears. I push the disorientation away, forcing myself to straighten and turn to him. “We can stop here. Help will come to us.”
He looks sceptically around the small clearing, empty and unwelcoming in the sporadic blue-tinged moonlight. “Here?”
“Yes. Make a fire.”
“It’ll take time to dig a proper firepit.”
“Then just, er … make a fire on the ground?”
“Ifor’s men’ll not have stopped looking for us, Alyssia. An open fire is the perfect way to attract their attention.”
“Please. Oriana needs warmth, and …” I can’t say I saw our fire in someone else’s future without sounding even more implausible than usual, so I fall back on the standby of people everywhere who find themselves incapable of explaining the truth. “Just trust me.”
He laughs under his breath, at that. Yet he has no choice, and both of us know it. Either he does as I say, or he abandons us here and returns to the city alone. And though I don’t flatter myself that he has any attachment to me, the promise of revenge that Oriana’s survival offers him is too appealing to resist. Still, he isn’t happy about it.
I rummage in the bag I’m carrying until I find the blanket roll and bandages he packed back in Easterwood. The blanket is waxed on one side, so at least it will give Oriana some protection from the damp ground. Once it’s laid out, Fabithe puts her down carefully before starting to make the fire. I kneel beside her, taking her wrist in my hand. Her pulse flutters against my fingers. When I put my ear to her lips, I feel the faintest brush of air.
“It’s all right,” I murmur to her. “Luthan will find us. And she’ll help – ”
But I can’t finish the sentence, because I don’t know for sure. Despite my bravado with Fabithe, I’m risking her life – risking all our lives. Luthan is a good person; I’ve known her long enough to be sure of that. She carries none of the violence that lies in Fabithe himself. Yet the year I’ve known her is worth almost nothing, because it fell before … before …
Before she was drawn to blood.
Other people’s or, failing that, their own. That’s what Fabithe said to me, when he told me about blood magic – and now Luthan is a mage. I believe that she intends to use only her own blood. That she’d never choose to hurt another person for the sake of power. Yet all those intentions were formed before she knew how strong the pull of someone else’s blood could be. We’ll be running the risk that she’ll snap, lose herself in that yearning and kill us all. But the alternative – returning Oriana to Ifor’s control, or being caught ourselves – is surely worse.
“Do you have the bandages?” Fabithe is at my side, bringing heat and the scent of woodsmoke with him. I didn’t even notice the blue moonlight being replaced with orange, but sure enough, a fire now dances and flickers behind him. How wonderful it would be to lie down beside it, close enough that at least half of me would finally feel warm and dry, and drift off to sleep. The way I’m feeling now, it wouldn’t be a case of drifting so much as dropping swift and deep, like a stone into a well. But that’s exactly why I can’t do it. Once I’m asleep, I’m going to want to sleep for days.
Taking the bandages from me, Fabithe squats down on the other side of Oriana. He placed her on her front, the cloak covering her, but now he pulls it back from her shoulders and removes the soaked strip of fabric that formed the earlier makeshift bandage. Beneath it, her entire upper back is dark with blood, cut and torn, the wounds gaping open. The long ride from the Citadel can’t have helped, nor the trek through the forest.
“It looks bad,” I say softly.
“Yes.” Anger is in every line of him, from the set of his jaw to the whitening of his knuckles. Gaze fixed on the wounds, he whispers something under his breath.
“Fabithe.” I touch his arm to recall his attention. “What should we do?”
He lifts his head. His eyes are almost black in the firelight. “I’m not a healer, Alyssia. I can patch her up again, the way I would for myself if I had to. But she’s going to need more than that.” Returning his gaze to Oriana’s back, he mutters half to himself, “Some day, I will kill him.”
I shudder – not so much at the words, as at the way he said them. I’ve heard plenty of people claim they’d like to kill someone, from kids moaning about the teacher who gave them detention to foster parents yelling in a beer-fuelled rage. But Fabithe is the only one I’ve ever believed.
“Let’s stop the bleeding, at least,” I say quickly. “That should hold her together until – ” Until Luthan gets here.
Fabithe cuts off a piece of bandage and places it across the wounds, then presses down firmly with the palms of both hands.
“There’s a waterskin in the bag,” he says. “And a pot. Since we have a fire, we might as well use it.”
It takes me a minute to join the dots, but once I do, I empty the skin into the small iron pot before hanging it by its long chain from the tepee of branches he’s set up above the fire. Once the water is bubbling, I unhook the pot by its heatproof handle and take it back to Fabithe. He acknowledges me with a nod.
“Blood’s slowing, at least. I’ll clean the cuts as best I can, once the water’s cool enough, but I don’t have any more darkroot.” Catching my blank expression, he adds, “Common household remedy. Helps the blood to clot.”
“Oh.”
“This friend you’re looking for should have some.” Lifting the piece of cloth to peer at Oriana’s back, he adds under his breath, “If we ever find her.”
I don’t rise to it. While he cleans the wounds and applies the bandage, I pass him things and help to support Oriana when necessary. As I lower her a final time, her eyelids lift.
“Is that you?” she breathes.
Her eyes are glazed; I don’t think she knows where she is or who I am. Still, I answer her. “Yes. It’s me.”
“Where am I?”
“Safe. You’re safe.”
“It hurts …”
“I know.” I take one of her hands, clutching it tightly. “But you’ll be all right. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Her eyelids are already drifting closed again. I watch her until she’s back in the depths of sleep. When I look up, I find Fabithe watching her too.
“What?” I ask softly.
“Nothing.” He gets to his feet and moves away, scrubbing his scarlet-stained hands on a spare length of bandage. “I’ll keep lookout. You take care of her. Let me know if the blood starts to come through.”
I pull the cloak up to just below the bandaged wound, and stroke Oriana’s damp hair back from her face. Fabithe folds his arms and gazes out at the night.
“You know,” he says after a while, without looking at me, “we can’t stay here forever. We can’t keep chasing your visions while she bleeds her life away and Ifor’s men track us down.”
“It’ll be all right,” I say, then shiver as the memory of the words echoes in my ears. I’ve seen this before – and my half-remembered knowledge of what I’m going to say resonates oddly with my own intent to say it. “I swear, we’ll find someone to help us.”
The words hang in the air, waiting … and then a twig cracks somewhere beyond the edge of the firelight. I turn. My gaze meets Luthan’s, and for a brief, terrifying moment it’s as if I’m her and me at the same time. Then she blinks and the double vision fades, leaving me gasping as if I’ve just been drenched by an icy ocean wave.
“Who are you?” Fabithe steps between us, knife in hand. Luthan backs away. She’s slight, compared to him, though taller than me. Her silver-blond hair is bound up in a scruffy knot behind her head, and her face – naturally a very light brown – is spattered to a deeper darkness with a mixture of freckles and dirt. The birthstone illusion at her throat is indistinguishable from the real thing.
She doesn’t look like a threat. She looks like the sort of awkward, dreamy girl who would have suffered through school being teased and tripped up in the corridor. But I know what it felt like, when the power surged through her. As of today, she could take all three of us apart.
“I’m Luthan,” she says. “I live here. On an island in the lake.”
Fabithe doesn’t look at me, so I don’t get to see how he reacts to this further proof of my veracity. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Well, it’s just me and my father.”
Now Fabithe does look at me – but rather than the grudging respect I hoped for, his expression is sceptical. “This is the help you promised?”
“She can help us,” I insist. Then, turning to Luthan, “You will help us, won’t you? Our friend … she’ll die, otherwise.”
I expect her to ask questions. Who are you? Why are you here? How was she hurt? Instead, her gaze moves to Oriana – and once there, it’s as though she can’t drag it away. Her face drains of colour. Her lips move, shaping silent words. When I glance down, I see a spreading red patch on the bandage.
Shit. I can still remember how Oriana’s blood looked through Luthan’s eyes. How it whispered seductive promises. I should have covered Oriana. I shouldn’t have drawn attention to her. Because now, if Luthan succumbs to the urge to drain the power from her veins, there’s nothing I can do about it …
Then Luthan closes her eyes and says, in a shaky voice, “Yes. We can help you.”
I stoop to twitch the cloak over Oriana’s shoulders, hiding the worst of the gore. Fabithe lowers his knife and regards Luthan with a mixture of amusement and contempt.
“If it takes you that way, you must be harmless,” he says. “It’d be an unlikely killer who couldn’t stand the sight of blood.”
Harmless. Luthan’s eyes fly open again, and her gaze meets mine. I wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing. I wonder how much of her swift agreement to help us sprang from a desire to atone for her bloodlust, or – more cynically – a desire to keep that abundant source of power within easy reach. Once we’re on the island, it will be harder for us to escape …
But I shouldn’t think that way. Whether wisely or not, I trust her. I trust them all.
A flush stains Luthan’s cheeks. I’m staring at her. I blink; she looks at Fabithe and repeats, “We can help you. There is room for you all to sleep under our roof. We have plenty of healing herbs in the storeroom. And my father knows a lot about these things. He will know how to mend her.”
I’m not sure if she means with medicine or with magic, but either is fine by me – and what Fabithe doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I smile at her, trying to make up for my earlier rudeness. “Thank you.”
“I suppose we don’t have much choice,” Fabithe mutters. Swiftly and efficiently, he moves to extinguish the fire and pack everything back into his bag. Crouching to gather Oriana into his arms once more, he adds, “Alyssia, take her knife.”
“What?”
“I’m going to have my hands full. And someone has to make sure it’s not an ambush.”
I look anxiously at Luthan. “Do you mind?”
In reply, she pulls the knife from her belt and hands it to me hilt-first.
“Your name is Alyssia?” she asks as I take it.
“Yes.”
“We have those outside our door.”
“I’m sorry. You have what?”
“Alith sia. They’re little white flowers that grow on the island. I’ll show you.”
She doesn’t need to show me. I’ve seen the flowers she means, many times before. I even painted one of them, once. I just never realised they had my name. Fighting a creeping sense of unreality, I nod.
“Well, that’s me. He’s Fabithe. And the one he’s carrying is Oriana.”
Luthan offers us an uncertain smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Fabithe succeeds in giving even that one word a mocking twist. “Let’s go.”
My shoulders scream in protest as I hoist the bag back onto them. My feet aren’t too happy about the situation either. Still, at Fabithe’s curt gesture, I follow directly behind Luthan while he brings up the rear. I think he expects me to use the knife on her, if necessary. There are so many things wrong with that idea that it’s almost funny, but I don’t say so. I just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until, finally, the trees open out ahead of us and there’s the lake, gleaming in the moonlight. More moonlight, now; the clouds are melting away like wisps of smoke above the water.
Isidor is waiting on the shore, collar open to reveal a birthstone just as convincing as Luthan’s own. When I saw him through her eyes, he was so familiar that it didn’t occur to me to think about anything as trivial as what he looked like. But now … if I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have guessed they were even related. Isidor is broad-shouldered, almost regal in bearing, with a craggy nose and thick silver eyebrows that give him a rather imposing appearance. His skin is a rich brown that’s a shade darker than that of Oriana and most of the other people I’ve seen in Castellany – more like Fabithe’s. Despite the fact that his daughter has just returned from the forest with three strangers in tow, his face reveals neither surprise nor alarm.
“Father!” Luthan launches into a somewhat incoherent explanation. Isidor listens without interrupting, though he sends a thoughtful glance our way from time to time. He must be anxious to speak to Luthan alone, to learn the outcome of the day’s events. Yet he shows no impatience, and once the story stutters to its end, he offers us a tranquil smile.
“You are most welcome to return with us to Othitali.” Then, tilting his head in the direction of Fabithe’s frown, “I assure you, she will be perfectly safe. We may be in Emerald territory, here, but I have no involvement in the feuds of the high bloodlines.”
We stare at him.
“She is Oriana Bluepeace, is she not?” He walks over to feel Oriana’s forehead, before placing two fingers at the side of her neck to check her pulse. “Highest Lady of the Stone Citadel?”
He knows an awful lot – and clearly, he read Fabithe’s worries far better than I did. Of course, I already knew who we were going to meet here, but it never even crossed my mind that Fabithe might be concerned about Oriana falling into Emerald hands as well as everything else. He did warn me we’d have armies after us if we helped her; I just didn’t realise how many.
As if to confirm that, a shout sounds from within the forest. Isidor looks up sharply, but shows no other sign of alarm.
“All right,” he says. “Let us get her to safety.”
As he helps Fabithe lift Oriana into the rowing-boat that’s tethered nearby, I offer Luthan her knife. “I expect you can have this back now.”
“Keep it.” She returns my smile. She seems a lot less on edge, as if seeing her father has reminded her that blood magic can be both peaceful and gentle, and not a constant struggle against temptation. “I don’t plan on using it any time soon.”
We scramble into the boat. I sit down on the other side of Oriana, helping to support her, while Luthan and Isidor take up the oars. Once we’re out on the water, it’s all I can do to stay awake. Cool air brushes my face, the motion of the boat is soothing, and it’s only my desire not to hurt Oriana that keeps me from letting myself lean against her, tip my head to rest against hers, and …
But I mustn’t sleep. Not yet. If she comes round, she’s going to need someone to reassure her. Someone she’s at least seen before. Which means me or Fabithe, and somehow I don’t think being reassuring is part of Fabithe’s repertoire.
I can’t stay with it, though. Not entirely. My head keeps dropping forward, and even surreptitiously pinching my own leg doesn’t do the job. The journey across the lake passes in a blur. The next thing I’m really aware of is a shock of cold, as I clumsily obey Isidor’s request to get out of the boat so that he and Luthan can beach it. We’ve reached Othitali. It’s enough to give me a final burst of strength. The water runs ice-cold fingers up the skin of my calves as I wade to the shore, producing a bone-deep ache to rival the one in my shoulders.
Leaving Luthan to tie up the boat, Isidor leads the way deeper onto the island. Fabithe follows, carrying Oriana once more; I walk beside him, water sloshing in my boots. When was the last time Fabithe slept? He didn’t sleep the night after I met him. Or the night we rescued Oriana. And now it’s night again. Yet he isn’t displaying so much as a hint of tiredness. Another thing to envy him for, along with the fact that his shabby coat probably means he isn’t quite as drenched as I am. My teeth are chattering, but I don’t have the energy to stop them.
Luthan catches up with us, and she and Isidor exchange soft words. A conversation. I don’t have the energy for that, either. I keep walking, mechanically, until Isidor glances over his shoulder. “Here we are.”
Ahead is a small wooden structure built around a tree in the centre of an open space filled with winter plants. That unsettling sense of familiarity creeps over me once more. I’ve walked through this clearing many times, stopped to examine a flower or listen to a bird singing … except I haven’t. Luthan has. I’m not the one whose heart lightens when I see the house again after months of traveling. I’m not the one who knows every tree on this island. Until recently, I didn’t even realise that Othitali was within a day’s journey of the Stone Citadel.
I follow the others inside. Some of the lamps are already lit, and their warm glow touches my face like a balm. Now I’m seeing the house through my own eyes, I’m newly surprised by how spacious it is – more so than it looks from the outside. The massive tree trunk cuts through the centre of the single room, encircled by a wooden staircase that provides access to the upper floors. Around the roots of the tree is an area of bare earth, but nearer the walls this becomes irregular paving-stones. Various pieces of what looks like antique furniture are strewn with maps and books. At the far end of the room is an area of cushions and soft throws, and a small fireplace.
“Bring her this way,” Isidor says to Fabithe, starting up the stairs with a lamp in one hand and a box in the other. “She will be more comfortable up here.”
Without a word, Fabithe obeys. I throw a longing glance at the area by the fire, before following. Isidor leads us up two flights of steps, to the room at the top of the house where he and Luthan usually sleep. There are two beds, simple wooden pallets, with a carved screen in between. Isidor places his lamp beside the nearest bed.
When Fabithe puts Oriana down, her eyes fly open. Her gaze moves from his face to Isidor’s, and a soundless sob shakes her. She tries to get up, only to fall back with a gasp.
“Oriana!” I drop to my knees on the other side of the bed from Isidor. “It’s all right. Look at me.”
Slowly, she turns her head. Her glazed eyes focus on my face.
“You’re safe,” I tell her. “Hold my hand. You’re safe.”
Her cold fingers curl around mine. Her eyelids droop closed again. I look up, to find that Fabithe has retreated out of the circle of light to lean against the table by the far wall. Isidor gives me an approving nod.
“Now,” he says. “Let us see what we can do.”
He opens his box, which concertinas out in three layers to reveal a host of jars, bandages and various other things, as well as a very pleasant herbal smell. Then, gently, he eases Oriana onto her front and unwraps her blood-soaked bandage. The wounds are still cleaner than they were; clean enough that for the first time, I see the underlying design. These aren’t just random cuts. They mean something.
“By the One,” Isidor mutters.
“What is it?”
“These are runes.” His finger hovers over her skin, careful not to touch. “This one, ifan. And this one, or. Together, they mean – ”
“He carved his name into her back.” Fabithe’s voice comes dark and coiled out of the shadows, like a promise of violence. Involuntarily, my hand tightens on Oriana’s.
“What?”
“That’s his full name. Ifanoré.”
Isidor looks up. “Who?”
“Her husband.” With a twanging thud that makes me jump, Fabithe walks away. As his footsteps descend the stairs, I glance back at the table where he was leaning and see the glint of a knife, driven into the wood.
“I was not aware Lady Oriana was married,” Isidor says.
“Yesterday evening. To Ifor Darklight.”
“The Roden of Northfell’s second son? He did this to her?”
“We had to get her out. He’d have killed her otherwise.”
Perhaps sensing my exhaustion, Isidor asks me no more questions. He cleans the wounds, then dresses them with some sweet-smelling ointment from the medical box, but all the while a small crease rests between his eyebrows. From him, that’s a sign of deep and anxious thought. In all the time I’ve known him through Luthan, I’ve very rarely seen him looking worried.
“She will recover,” he says finally. A new bandage is in place, neat and clean. I have no idea if he applied any magic along with the herbs; I’ve been slipping in and out of dreams even as I sat here. “But there is a story to be told, another day.”
I nod meekly. My vision is blurring, and I can’t tell if there’s one of him or two.
“You need some sleep,” Isidor says. “Luthan and I will look after her. There, lie down.” He gestures me to the second bed. I think it might be his own. I should probably object, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, with a grateful smile, I collapse on top of the covers and close my eyes.