As I predicted, the going is slow. It’s a dark wood—the treetops catch most of the light before it can filter through—and we’re making an unfortunate amount of noise. Though the air at this height is colder than that of the lower slopes back east, I shed my cloak and stuff it into my pack when my face grows flushed with exertion. The others have long since abandoned theirs.
For all my brave talk about listening to Helos and me, I can’t help but feel I’m setting a poor example. I flinch at every snapped twig. I can’t go more than a handful of steps without looking over my shoulder. I’m not even positive I’m heading in the right direction; the cloud cover is making it difficult to track the sun’s position in the sky.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been away. Each step forward feels like stepping into the past, back into that state of prolonged uncertainty and dread, teasing out the threads of fear woven into my core. I try to remind myself that this is a different time. I’m older now, stronger, and nightmares are not destined to repeat, not necessarily. It’s no use. Memories cling to me like cobwebs, and it’s impossible to shake them loose.
My own mother left me. The knowledge is certainly nothing new, but being here makes the wounds I have worked so hard to suppress gnaw at my insides with renewed intensity. Father is dead, and our mother abandoned us. She was supposed to protect me. Supposed to love me.
Wasn’t she? Isn’t that what mothers do?
Another crack to my right, and this time I swivel so quickly that my feet tangle in the undergrowth. Helos catches me before I can fall.
It’s only a ginger-furred holly hare, his enormous eyes four times larger than an ordinary rabbit’s. The pupils constrict rapidly, and he bears two rows of serrated teeth before dashing back into the brush.
Weslyn gapes at the sight.
“Let’s rest,” Helos suggests, letting go of my arms when I’ve regained my balance.
I shake my head, blood heating my face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not, and neither am I.” My brother and his honesty. “A few minutes won’t hurt.”
But they will. Every minute we waste is another minute trapped in this cursed place. And if we stop, I won’t even have the distraction of hiking to help me.
My brother is already pulling food from his pack, though, so I sink to the ground and draw my knees up in front of me. Minister Mereth gifted us plenty of provisions for the journey, but the thought of food turns my stomach heavy as stone, so I only sip a little from my waterskin. Weslyn watches the quivering bushes awhile longer before sinking slowly to my other side.
“How long did you live here?” he asks, when I’m halfway lost to memories. It’s a difficult question to answer, considering we didn’t have much of a method for measuring time.
I look to Helos, but he appears preoccupied with monitoring our surroundings, slightly wide-eyed. I’m still watching him when I answer. “Don’t know. Twelve, thirteen years in total, maybe.”
A pause. Then, “What made you leave?”
I glance at Weslyn sharply. When Helos and I met with King Gerar a week following Queen Raenen’s death, we had shared only the slimmest details of our situation. He had asked us where we’d lived before—Caela Ridge—and for our parents’ names, which we couldn’t remember beyond Father and Mother. But despite his thoughtful gaze, he never pressed us to uncover the full truth of our past. No one had, except for Finley.
“It became difficult to survive on our own,” I reply, stifling the urge to ask him why he wants to know.
His brow furrows. “And how long were you on your own for?”
The food in Helos’s hand remains untouched. He’s just … sitting there. Leg bouncing. Fiddling with his sleeve.
I stand abruptly, brushing the debris from my backside. Being here is difficult enough without rehashing the details of our tragic past out loud. “Let’s keep moving. I want to reach the lake by nightfall.”
Weslyn looks like he might object, then appears to think better of it and pushes to his feet.
“I’ll lead for a while,” Helos offers automatically as he shoulders his pack.
I shake my head. “No, I’ll—”
Weslyn sucks in a breath, and my fingers stretch into claws before I’ve even assessed the danger. He’s tugging his leg upward, hands clasped just above the knee.
“I can’t get free,” he says with thinly veiled panic as I survey the rippling ground caressing his feet.
“Just stay calm,” Helos directs, back in protector mode. “That’s—”
“Sinking sand,” I finish for him, sheathing the claws and scouring our surroundings for fallen branches. Well aware of the fact that the sand wasn’t there when we sat down.
“What makes you think I’m not calm?” Weslyn says, the objection falling flat against the pitch of his voice.
“Helos!” I exclaim, and an instant later he joins the search. I’m kicking leaves and twigs aside, hurling rocks, moving farther from the boys as my search grows more desperate.
“It’s getting higher,” Weslyn calls, and I slam backward a handful of steps—but it’s only at his ankles. Relief quickly overpowers my confusion, and I find what I was searching for shortly after.
Rough bark digs into my palms as I hoist the branch back to Weslyn and plunge an end into the vile sand, moving it in a way that mimics a creature’s footsteps. The sand gathers around the branch, sucking at it like poisonous kisses, and the distraction is enough. Weslyn takes Helos’s outstretched hand and hauls his feet onto stable ground.
I drop the branch to its fate while Weslyn regains his bearings. My brother’s attention continues to flit behind us—the initial cry would have alerted any creatures in the area.
“Thanks,” Weslyn breathes, lifting one foot after the other, as if he no longer trusts the ground beneath them.
“You’re lucky,” I tell him, and his eyebrows arch. “It usually moves much faster.”
To my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches. A moment, a blink in time—then gone. “That’s comforting to know.”
Helos hands Weslyn his pack before pulling mine from the forest floor. “Let’s keep moving,” he suggests, and neither of us objects.
I take the lead as promised, both boys falling into step behind me. Weslyn doesn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the day.
* * *
By the time twilight falls, my nerves are so frayed, my body so exhausted, that I’d likely be useless if anything else did attack us. Luckily, the land has lain quiet, and the handful of creatures we’ve come across have been no larger than my foot. Which seems odd, but I don’t voice my misgivings out loud. It’s only been one day. Plenty of time for danger to materialize.
The lake is even larger than I remember, a vast expanse of open, empty space that looks forbidding in the dusky light. Long shadows skim the rippling, blue-gray surface, racing the surrounding conifers for a prominent spot in the gathering dark. Tomorrow, we’ll follow its shore south for a good while, continuing toward the low-lying mist that I spied from Niav. I still have no idea what that mist might do to us when we reach it.
Weslyn suggests we spend the night directly on the shore, but Helos insists we set our camp fifty paces away. I scour the forest floor for pieces of kindling, sparking memories from another quest for firewood.
It was close to winter, perhaps a year or so after our village burned. I had crept through the gathering dusk, wandering farther from Helos than was wise, yet determined to be of use. My small hands reached for a leafy stick on the ground—and closed around a tail.
I had heard stories of the changeling wolves that can alter their fur to camouflage with their surroundings better than any chameleon. Father admired them, believed their presence a sign of prosperity in the Vale. “If you ever see one, take heart,” he’d say. “That means the world is at balance.” Though the rest of his words are mostly lost, I still recall the low hum of his voice spinning tales for Helos and me, a fire’s warm glow dancing playful s
ilhouettes across the log walls. A woolen blanket and a pair of slender hands—my mother’s, I guess, for all the good they’d do me later. But he never taught me how to evade one, and here was a pair of eyes gleaming in the shadows, a lip curled back in warning, a coat returning from nut brown to gold-streaked gray.
The wolf was small, not yet a yearling as later comparison would reveal. I must have come close to the pack’s den. Those were the only conclusions I reached before heat surged through my limbs and numbness engulfed me, and my body bent and lengthened into a lynx for the first time—fluffy, gray winter coat flecked with white, tufts of thicker fur encircling my face, eyes a brighter yellow than the amber ones before me.
The transformation startled the wolf, whose cry alerted the family. I barely had time to test my new paws before bolting away as fast as they could carry me, unwilling to wait and see if the pack would attack.
In the present, I gasp and lose my grip on the dry twigs I’ve bent over to collect. When the landscape before me solidifies once more, I straighten and place a hand over my thundering heart. There’s no way to know whether any changeling wolves might be lurking in these trees. And if there are?
A sign of prosperity; that’s how Father would see it. But I never learned how to find the beauty in them. Only the danger.
When I return with the kindling, Weslyn asks to take first watch. Again, Helos contradicts him. Maintaining a smokeless fire requires diligence and care, and knowledge that he doesn’t have. My brother will take first watch.
The glower on Weslyn’s face, visible in the dim light of the small fire when it’s made, suggests that he, too, has felt the power balance shift. There’s nothing for it, though. Helos and I have spent years honing the craft of survival. The wild is our domain.
Without another word, Weslyn busies himself with the small black book he’s been reading—a war history, according to the fading spine—though he glances around nervously when scrabbling noises penetrate the dark. The flames crackle and pop, and the soothing scent of burning wood lingers in the air. I collapse onto my bedroll as soon as I’ve finished eating, swatting at a few idle gnats and banishing further rumination on wolves. Nerves spent, I stare up at the night sky.
In the sliver visible beneath the treetops, the stars are vast and brilliant, flickering in the expanse. A band of white sweeps across the blackness like brushstrokes over canvas. Gradually, I let them lull me into what I hope will be a dreamless slumber.
It never is.
* * *
At first, I’m not sure what snaps me awake.
Blinking a few times to combat my swollen eyelids, I push myself onto my elbows and survey the camp. Helos and Weslyn are both asleep, Helos snoring softly, Weslyn with an arm bent beneath his head. Fading shadows drape the surrounding wood like gray gossamer curtains, mingling with patches of early morning fog. I tip my head to the sky, which is heavy with storm clouds, robbed of the dawn. With the sun obscured, it’s difficult to judge the hour.
Twisting around, I force myself to focus on each individual noise, cataloging them in my head: leaves chattering in the breeze, ptarmigans rustling the vegetation, twigs snapping, insects buzzing and chirping.
My heart rate picks up. I lean forward a little, straining to hear it again.
Several moments pass. Nothing.
“Is something wrong?”
Weslyn has sat up and is rubbing the sleep from his face, his navy shirt crinkled around the sleeves.
“I thought I heard footsteps.” I keep my voice low.
Weslyn scans the perimeter, unblinking. “And now?”
“My senses are too limited like this,” I say, pushing to my feet. Weslyn quickly mirrors me. “I’m going to shift and scout around.”
“What do—”
“Wake Helos and tell him where I’ve gone. I won’t be long.” I reach to pull my shirt over my head.
With a strangled protest, Weslyn turns his back to me, though not before I catch his look of intense alarm. “Fortune’s sake,” he says, “I would have given you privacy. You don’t have to just … strip.”
I have to suppress a laugh as I stuff my clothing into my pack. Sometimes I forget how bashful humans are about nudity. For shifters, it’s just another body, same as any of our animal forms.
Coolness rushes through my tingling limbs as they shrink and settle into lynx, my fur silver brown in the summer season. Already, my fluffy coat has blocked out the morning chill as my tufted ears sift through the minute sounds of clicking, chirping, biting. Much better. I flex my claws, then lope away from the campsite.
The mingled scent of magic—soil and ash—drapes the wilderness like a second skin. I venture far from the boys and our things, appreciating the solitude and the dappled sunlight on my back, the earth packed beneath my massive paws. About forty paces away, a tiny body’s urgent scurrying cuts abruptly into a cry of anguish. Someone is hunting, and my tufted ears pick up the sounds as if the scene were laid out before me. Prey, demands that inner voice, the bit of animal instinct that accompanies each shift. But my human impulses are always stronger, and I have other priorities right now.
The weight of the footsteps I heard had called a bear to mind, but so far, there is no bear in sight. When the undergrowth makes it difficult to navigate on foot, I retrace my steps to clearer ground, and suddenly I’m running. Running and then rising, body shrinking and wings bursting forth—through the trunks, above the canopy, into the open sky.
Where I’d see only blurs of green and teal as a human at this distance, my hawk eyes can make out leaves, branches, and the negative space between. Shafts of cooler breeze skim my feathers as I circle the woods, riding pockets of air. Once. Twice. I can’t help myself; the feeling of freedom is intoxicating.
On the third circle round, I take stock of my surroundings. The Decani Mountains loom far to the north, their jagged peaks dusted with snow and patches of conifers. Just west of them lies the sapphire Elrin Sea. I turn my attention to the trees below and sweep lower, searching for movement. What I find makes my heart drop.
There is indeed a bear lumbering toward the lake. It’s heading right for Weslyn, and Helos isn’t with him.
My wings beat the air furiously as I shoot toward him. Weslyn must have heard the footsteps, because he has his sword out. It’s difficult to judge what type of bear it is from here, but if it’s a timber bear …
Please, Violet had said—pleaded—and I don’t intend to fail her.
I twist and swerve through the narrow gaps between branches, dropping low as I go. This body is built for maneuvering through forests. Launching straight over the bear’s head—just a black bear, thank fortune—I burst into the clearing and shift, my bare feet slamming into the ground with more force than intended.
Weslyn nearly jumps out of his skin and pivots toward me faster than seems possible. The tip of his outstretched blade grazes my stomach.
There’s a moment in which we both freeze, struck by the knowledge that he was a finger-length from killing me. His wide gaze drops to the thin line of red now trailing across my olive flesh. Then he lowers his blade and swings round, tossing my pack behind him without looking back.
Keeping an eye on the trees around us, I dress as quickly as I can, my shaking hands fumbling with the fabric.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his back still to me.
I nod, then remember he can’t see that. “I’m fine.”
“Why did you—”
But he doesn’t finish, because the bear has moved closer. He’s raven black and gorgeous, his waggling nose sniffing the air, beady eyes watching us.
“He’s probably just curious,” I say quietly.
Weslyn makes a soft noise of disbelief. “Bit close for curiosity.”
I’m just grateful those powerful paws don’t possess any magical abilities. I glance at Weslyn, then at his hand, which is maintaining a vise-like grip on his sword. If he spooks, he’ll use it, and there’s no need for that. No one here is g
oing to die on my watch.
“GET!” I yell without warning, clapping my hands together.
Weslyn starts. “What—”
“Scaring him off.” I shout again, once, twice, clapping my hands and throwing them in the air. Weslyn does the same, swinging his sword a bit.
It works. The bear decides we’re not worth his trouble and turns tail to retreat.
Weslyn rounds on me as soon as he’s out of sight. “You didn’t see it while scouting?”
“I did. That’s why I’m here,” I retort, realizing with a pang of guilt that I probably could have spotted it sooner if I hadn’t given in to distraction. “Where’s Helos?”
“He left to look for you.”
“He left you alone?”
Weslyn shrugs a bit, then blanches at the sight of my stomach. “You’re hurt.”
He’s right; blood is seeping through the front of my shirt, the stain expanding at a disconcerting rate. I almost wish he hadn’t pointed it out, because now that he has and the shock has worn off, the pain is starting to register.
Quick as a flash, Weslyn drops his blade and kneels by his pack.
“I’ve got bandages in here somewhere,” he mumbles, rummaging through the contents.
I should reply and tell him that it’s fine. And I will. As soon as I can open my mouth without the risk of crying out.
“Okay, I—hey,” he says, scrambling over to where I’ve sunk to the ground. I note the small drop of panic in his voice with grim satisfaction.
“It’s nothing,” I insist, a little breathless because of what feels like dozens of needles now sticking my skin.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, but his hands are hesitant as they reach for the bottom of my shirt. I flinch away, and a small gasp escapes my lips at the movement. The needles cut deeper.
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