“Wretched, wretched Wild!” I yelled into the trees, and threw a rock into the brush.
The rock came bouncing back at me, rolling to a stop at my feet. The Wild didn’t answer with words. But it watched. It was always watching.
I stumbled south, closing in on the edge of the Wild. I could feel it. Feel the Wild’s desperation. Trees with newly sprouted leaves scattered among the evergreens joined the fight to keep me in. Branches snagged at my hair and cloak while vines twisted around my ankles, threatening to root me to the ground. I pulled my sword to fight them off, and though they flinched away for a moment, it wasn’t enough to deter them.
After what felt like hours of chopping through the roughage, my shoulders and legs aching like never before, the Wild suddenly stopped fighting. The trees stood still; the vines lay dormant. No more exotic birds, no more curious animals.
I’d made it into Turia and out of the Wild.
And yet some unseen dread settled around the tightness in my belly. The same sense of unease as when I’d crossed the shadowman’s blackened trail.
Someone—something—was tracking me. Waiting for me.
For the first time since watching Aleinn fall lifelessly to the ground, since hesitating while Hafa battled the mage without me, something besides fear and pain and desperation to survive filled me.
Rage.
I would not run away again.
My senses cataloged every snapped branch, every scurrying animal. There were no blackened trails nearby, yet I knew the creature tracking me wasn’t natural. I crossed straight through a small clearing and left my cloak and gouged staff under a bush. When I passed into the undergrowth, I drew my sword and snuck around to the side.
The shadowman’s foot didn’t make a sound as he stepped into the clearing. Little sunlight filtered through the overhead branches, and he blended into the shadows as if he were part of them. He wasn’t smudged, like the mage had been, but there was something overly precise in the way he moved. He held a black sword, and his cloak billowed in the still forest air.
My heartbeat echoed in my empty stomach, and my pulse throbbed against my wounds. Now that I’d left the Wild, the absence of its magic left me stretched thin, like a worn-out sweater. Did I have enough energy to fight another battle?
I inhaled slowly and let my focus narrow down to my sword and my opponent. We’d find out.
I slipped silently from the embrace of the trees, attacking when he drew even with me. The shadowman wasn’t surprised; he simply turned and met my blade, then raised his other hand. Instinct took over from my practice with Master Hafa, and I lifted my ring hand. I staggered back from the shock of absorbing the burst of energy sent my way.
The shadowman charged when the blast didn’t affect me. I blocked his swing and answered with one of my own. His offense came fast, but his swings were so precise they were predictable. My ring vibrated with the shadowman’s magic—I could feel it now, outside of the Wild.
The tip of my sword wobbled with my shaking muscles. Master Hafa had taught me only to defend against magic, not to attack with it. When I’d used it against the wolves, it had been sheer luck. And my strength wouldn’t last much longer.
I took a deep breath and visualized shifting the magic from the ring into the sword. When the shadowman approached again, I defended. I yelped and jumped back as a wave of energy blasted from my sword. The shadowman rippled like the surface of a pond, and the magic slowed him down for a fraction of a second, but then passed straight through him.
No. I pushed out the rest of the magic until there was nothing left. I panted, my sword growing heavier by the second. He wasn’t winded—if he even breathed. And I had used up precious energy on magic that hadn’t worked.
I released a long, slow breath, and raised my sword to Master Hafa’s specifications. I wouldn’t continue on, hunted by this thing. I had answers to find in Turia.
Our blades met again, and I spun, grabbing the hunting knife in my boot, then slashing at him with both weapons.
He parried my first three blows, but my fourth struck true. The edge of my knife disappeared into him without any resistance, then reappeared as he dissolved like smoke in the wind. His sword thumped to the ground.
I was alone in the clearing, but my heart still raced.
His black sword glinted dully, and I slipped my knife back into my boot and reached down for it. My hand stopped before I could touch it. I pushed against the invisible barrier until I realized it wasn’t magic from the blade keeping me away; it was my ring’s magic protecting me. And then, as I watched, the black sword disintegrated into dust on the forest floor, a small patch of dead grass the only hint that anything had been there.
I jumped back and sheathed my blade. Rested my hands on my knees. No uneasiness. No one following me. No Wild trying to trap me. The sun had just passed below the trees. I’d have an hour at best before it was too dark to see.
Food. And water. The need for them took over every other rational thought. It even filled the hole in my chest where the tethers had been.
I headed south again, hoping to cross a stream but not finding one. There was a blackberry bush to the left of my path, but when I searched under the leaves, my hands came away with only scratches; the berries had all been picked off. The wind rushed through the trees like a waterfall. The sound never led to water.
Survive.
The word echoed through me, but it had started to lose its meaning. I tried thinking about my time in the Wild, if I’d eaten anything at all. Hazy snatches of memory came back, of a handful of berries here and there, but the Wild’s magic had tricked me into thinking I was full, the wretched place.
Exhaustion laced every muscle, every thought. But if I stopped for the night, I was afraid I would never get up. So I pushed on as the light faded.
The ground seemed to shift beneath me with every step. Then I tripped over a root, and fell head over tail down an embankment.
When the world finally stopped spinning, I lay in a patch of…onions? Sturdy green stalks in neat rows and a tantalizing aroma surrounded me.
My face and tangled hair were covered in dirt, a new ache sprouted in my ribs on the other side from the wolf scratches, and my ankle throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I didn’t move, didn’t bother to lift my face.
“Are you dead?” a voice whispered. Something nudged my leg. I groaned, and someone yelped.
My head snapped up.
Not a voice on the wind. Not a trick of the Wild.
A boy.
Maybe ten or twelve years old. Dark hair. Olive skin. Holding a stick like a sword.
“Mama!” he yelled into the night. “Papa! A girl fell into the onions!”
My head landed back in the dirt, and the world went dark.
* * *
Liquid dribbled down my chin, pulling me from an odd limbo between wakefulness and sleep. Someone placed a cup against my lips and tilted my head back, and cool water chased warm broth down my throat, churning together in my stomach.
The air smelled like a combination of onions and spices I’d never tasted. I squinted against the firelight. Four sets of brown eyes stared at me.
A woman sat nearest, peace radiating from her like sunshine. She wore a simple faded-green skirt, gray shirt, and an apron whose original color I couldn’t begin to guess. A thin yellow scarf wrapped around her ebony hair, which was pulled into a loose bun at the top of her head, with only a few strands of silver shining through at her temples.
A man stood behind her, his strong hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Same dark hair. A colorless shirt smudged with dirt covered broad shoulders accustomed to work.
The boy who’d found me, now without his stick, peeked out from behind the man, who could only be his father.
The fourth pair of eyes belonged to a small girl with black hair,
holding a handmade doll. The girl’s wide caramel eyes never blinked, and her mouth was stuck in a permanent O.
The woman tipped a ceramic bowl filled with red broth into my mouth. I drank greedily, slurping in as much as I could.
“Easy now, carina,” she murmured, like I was a young colt. Her accent was soft, her R’s rolling trills and her vowels longer.
A pang shuddered through me. Did Gentry ever make it out?
“It will take time for you to get used to having food again.”
Time? Oh no—how long had I been here? I thought I’d left the Wild. But maybe I hadn’t?
I jerked back, scooting until I fell off the bed I hadn’t realized I’d been on. “I won’t stay!” My ribs groaned and pulled, my ankle throbbed, as I tossed blankets aside searching for my sword. At least I had my ring. Ren’s book! “Where is it?” I asked frantically, patting my pockets and bending to look under the bed.
“Where is what?” the man asked, taking a protective step to guard his family from me.
“My belongings! I can’t forget again. I won’t…” I ran my hands over the floor. Had I missed the brown cover in the dim light?
“Here,” a small voice said. The boy held my sheathed sword and book out to me, a curious tilt to his head. “We weren’t going to take them.”
I froze, then grabbed them. He jumped away, and I bit my lip, brow furrowed, studying the family and the cabin I was in.
My staff lay on the floor by the bed I’d been on, which was similar to mine in Hálendi—a wood frame filled with straw, covered by a blanket. Everything else was foreign. The planks of the walls intersecting in corners, the fire in the side wall instead of in the middle of the room, the long, tall table pushed up against the wall by the cupboards. A door in the back hinted at another room, tucked by the fireplace.
“Where am I?” I asked, holding tight to my sword and stashing the book into my pocket. “How long have I been here?”
The woman tilted her head, a move that matched her son’s. “You haven’t been here more than an hour, carina. And you’re in our bosco,” she said, her eyes flicking to my hair.
“Bosco?” The word tasted foreign on my tongue.
“Our land,” she said. “Our patch of trees, if you will.”
“Not in the Wild?” I asked, and limped to the window. We were in a clearing, but beyond that, I couldn’t see much in the dark.
“She talks funny,” the little girl whispered.
“Hush,” her father whispered back.
“The Wild?” the woman asked. “Of course not, carina. No one goes…” She took in my clothes and hair again.
Glaciers, I’d said too much. “My name is not Carina,” I said, hoping to change topics.
The boy scoffed. “It’s not a name.”
The woman clicked her tongue at him, a sound I’d never heard, yet I knew exactly what it meant. “I am called Irena. My husband is Lorenz, and this is Carlo and Gia. I call you ‘carina’ because I do not know your name.”
“I—” I tried to swallow, but my mouth was still too dry. The room started spinning again.
“Here, sit,” Irena and Lorenz both said, coming forward and taking me by the elbow, gently guiding me back to the bed. “You are not well?” Irena asked, easing me down so I sat against the wall.
“My mama will take care of you,” Gia said with a nod.
The corners of my mouth tipped into a smile. Not the Wild. They wouldn’t force me to stay. I wouldn’t forget.
Lorenz spread his arms, gathering his children and shepherding them toward the room by the fireplace. “Come, it’s time for bed.”
They protested loudly, though Carlo yawned and Gia rubbed her eyes with her little fists.
“What ails you, child?” Irena asked when we were as alone as we could be in the tiny house. She went to the long table, the skirt brushing against her calves much shorter than any in Hálendi. As she dumped water from the bucket into a bowl, the liquid caught the light from the fire. She washed her hands and wiped them on a cloth. The tasks awakened a memory I had pushed deep down inside: a memory of my mother with warmth in her arms.
What ailed me? The room went blurry as tears gathered in my eyes and trailed down my cheeks when I squeezed my eyes shut. My father. My brother. Aleinn, Master Hafa, Leland, all those soldiers who’d become my friends. My kingdom. My future. My present. It all ailed me.
When I didn’t respond right away, a line of worry deepened in Irena’s brow.
“May I have more water, please?” I asked, my throat scratching.
She filled a delicate ceramic cup and sat on a stool by the bed. I spilled some of the water, my grip weak, but managed to swallow most of it. It slid, cool and refreshing, all the way down my throat, and I knew I would never enjoy any drink as much as this simple cup of stream water.
I held the cup in my lap and leaned my head back a moment to take a few breaths. “Could I also have more food, please? Anything you have to spare?” It had been only a week, yet my voice was almost unrecognizable to me, like it had changed in the Wild, too.
Irena’s hand brushed my shoulder—a delicate touch, yet so foreign—and she brought me a small chunk of bread from the kitchen.
“Don’t eat too much, or you’ll lose it all.”
She watched as I tore off a small portion and put it into my mouth. An herb I hadn’t expected burst over my tongue. Rosemary, maybe? I chewed slowly, savoring every moment. The woman chuckled. She probably thought I was…well, whatever the Turian equivalent of an Ice Desert wanderer was.
“I’m glad to see you appreciate my baking.” Her eyes were still laughing.
I was too tired to smile or laugh with her. My chin tipped down, and my eyelids grew heavy, unable to resist the pull of this home. Heat from the fire wrapped around my aching body—not with numbness, like in the Wild, but with actual warmth.
“This is the finest baking I’ve ever encountered,” I rasped out.
Irena helped me lie down as I struggled to stay awake. I knew I should thank her—they’d saved my life. But a part of me wasn’t sure this wasn’t a new trick of the Wild.
Her brown eyes lost their laugh. “I don’t know what you are running from, child, or how you ended up on my door looking like the Wild chewed you up and spit you out, but you are welcome to stay until you are ready to get wherever you’re going.”
Would I ever be ready to leave this haven and face those responsible for so much destruction?
I had no family left, no kingdom. Now that my empty stomach and parched tongue were taken care of, I could once again feel the hollowness just under my heart. I didn’t think it would ever go away. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to. The pain was all I had left of my family. I remembered the longing I had sensed through my father’s tether the day he had given me my sword. The thought flashed through my mind that maybe that was why my father had always clung to his grief—it was a way to be close to my mother.
A murky haze left over from the Wild blocked out my memories of my home, my kingdom, as if those experiences had been lived in a different lifetime. I wasn’t sure who had come out of the Wild, but it wasn’t the same person who had run away into it.
I was half asleep already when I murmured, “Jen—”
“What, carina?” Irena tilted her head in confusion.
I hadn’t thought to give her a name other than my own. “My name,” I said. “My name is Jen.”
She held out her hand. I stared at it until I remembered—Turians greeted each other by touching hands.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Jen.”
I had nothing to offer these people, nothing left to give. But I touched my hand to hers. Her fingers squeezed mine, the pressure reassuring and gentle.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
I’d made it to Turia. Now how woul
d I get to King Marko?
Vines reach like tentacles, cloaked shadows at the edge of my vision.
Muddy bodies with glassy eyes stare at the sky.
The mage slides his knife across Aleinn’s neck. Again. And again. And again.
Haunted by nightmares, I slept off and on through the whole next day and into the early morning hours of the next. Each time I awoke from an awful dream, questions plagued me. Why had the mage targeted my family? Who was he working with? Where was he now?
How could I ever hope to defeat him if he found out he’d killed the wrong girl and came after me again?
I’d already had three cups of water from the bucket on the table and was slowly lacing my boots, my fingers stiff, when Lorenz emerged from the tiny room in the corner of the cabin. He shook his head and clicked his tongue at me, exactly like Irena had at Carlo.
“She won’t like that, carina. Best rest a little longer.” He grabbed a wide-brimmed hat from a hook by the door, added a log to the low fire, and, with a nod my way, plopped the hat on his head and ducked outside.
“He’s right,” Irena said from the door of her room. I startled and winced, breathing through the flash of pain in my ribs. “First, you’ll need a bath. Then we’ll see about your injuries.”
“But—”
Irena flicked her fingers, cutting me off.
She set up a large tub right there in the kitchen, filled it with water carted from the stream and warmed with the fire. “I don’t want to have to burn those blankets, and if you spend another minute in those clothes, I’m afraid that’s what it will come to.”
I wrinkled my nose and unlaced my boots slowly. A bath did sound nice.
“If you need help—”
“I can manage,” I blurted. My hair would be a tangled mess, but I couldn’t risk it. Not in Turia. Not with a mage who’d tried to kill me still out there somewhere.
She finished filling the tub, then shooed Carlo and Gia outside. “Change into these.” She set a bundle of clothes on the floor by a towel.
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