Losna whined, unmoving. The noise was thankfully swallowed by the dirt.
Shhh, Ahraia hissed, crouching back down. Didn’t you just tell me to hurry?
Losna’s brow pressed down about her yellow eyes. No.
Ahraia shook her head, expecting Losna to already be out of the den. But the closures, they’re open. Didn’t you just—Ahraia stopped short. Sweat broke out all over her skin. The tendrils of a binding were already embedded in her mind, grown like roots through the bitter ground into the den, gnarled and creeping.
We’re being enchanted.
Ahraia pressed herself closer to her shadow. She reached out to feel if a sprite was upon the hilltop. It felt empty. Empty like the Stone Tree had felt. She shivered.
The den seemed suddenly hot, the air too thick to breathe. An intense need to flee took her, and she only just overcame it. Ahraia was sure of it now. An enchantress was near—the Masai undoubtedly. Her spells came like the clouds, thick and pure, drifting over the full moon, allaying the light it cast, allaying Ahraia’s fears.
It’s safe. Come out. The sprites have gone.
The Masai was close—and clever—so subtle as to know the exact tone and tenor of Ahraia’s thoughts. Like fog drifting through trees, it morphed before her, disorienting her as she tried to grasp it.
Let’s go, it said, tugging at Ahraia. And though Ahraia knew it was contrived, she pushed off her knee again nonetheless. Losna grabbed her with her jaw, sharp teeth gently stilling her as though she was a cub. Losna’s black-tipped nose flared. She sniffed at the air.
Something’s out there. The Masai. I can smell her cloak . . .
Ahraia dug her hands into the loose dirt, the grainy pebbles grounding her and helping her renew her defense of them.
She reformed her protections, focusing on removing the lattice of roots that had already propagated through her mind. She joined Losna’s thoughts, reducing them together to the nothingness of the dirt and den about them.
Nothing’s here, Ahraia thought, projecting outward faintly.
Above her, a voice suddenly called out, causing her to flinch.
“Find them! They’re here. I know it!”
The hilltop came alive with sprites. A wave of stronger enchantment lashed out, grabbing Ahraia’s wrists and legs, willing her forward. She gave up the pretense of pretending not to be there, instead focusing on Losna. My shadow. I’m not giving up my shadow.
She closed her eyes, seeing the Endless Plains stretch before her, their feet running together. The stars were calling them onward, farther and farther onto the plain. Losna’s mind was racing with her, eager to be free of the den and unperturbed by the binding.
Where are you? The Masai’s conveyance whipped against her mind. “Ahraia. Come forth!” The last was a command, so strong that only Losna’s bite kept Ahraia from crawling out in compliance. The pungent odor of the cloak kept Losna from succumbing to the Masai, her distrust echoing through Ahraia’s link. She held Ahraia firmly, biting sense back into her. Eventually, the enchantments flickered and went out, one after another.
Silence spread across the hilltop. The glow in the east was growing.
Finally, the Masai’s voice roiled out into the last vestiges of the night, undoubtedly heard across all the Makers.
“I don’t know what you think will come of this. Do you think you’ll become a sprite? Do you mean to challenge me?”
The silence rang out. Ahraia had never wanted to be the Masai, or even an Astra. But she heard the ragged edges of fear playing at the Masai’s words, being driven wild by the sheer threat of her escaping. She felt the collective confusion in the sprites too, wondering if a new Masai hid within their presence. It drove all reason from the Masai’s voice.
“You can’t win, Ahraia. And if you run, I’ll hunt you, to the edges of the world. What hollow haunts of the day do you think will shelter you? The shadows under the mountains? What place is that for you? A place where goblins and imps drivel in caves dug by red-bearded devils, where daemons prowl long-fingered beneath tombs with no light at all? Or would you seek the forests, light-strewn and leafless, cursed by the bright, to spend your days tarrying between lay-beasts and lightwalkers?”
The Masai’s voice rose, like the light growing in the east.
“Do you think your shadow will protect you? To what end? When you wither beneath the burning Dae-Mon on the Endless Plains, do you think the wolves won’t pick the meat from your bones as they do their own? Come forth, and have this over with. Come forth and fight like a sprite!”
Ahraia felt the rush of hope. The thought of defeating the Masai in a posturant, to hold her and turn her drain inward on itself, gave her a way out. But she knew the thought was projected onto her, the Masai seeking any way to draw her forth.
Ahraia closed her eyes, trying hard to remember herself. She shifted, and something sharp poked her ribs. She reached for it, feeling the tines of the comb. Something smooth and heavy came to rest in her hand. She pulled it in front of her. The mirror.
She stared at herself.
Her hair, marked by the moons and singed by the day, fell rag-tumble across her face. The light markings across her jaw were dark, brilliant—stronger now than they had ever been. Her eyes were bright too: incandescent and yellow. All of it inappropriate for a sprite.
And I am not a sprite, she thought defiantly. Nor will I be.
“Come forth!” the Masai screamed. The voice filled with enchantment, but it was losing its pull.
Ahraia stared at Losna, resisting the domineering urge that had pulled one foot after another towards the dark of the Stone Tree. Her shadow lay before her, a breathing reminder of who she was. Looking in the mirror and looking at Losna was no different: eyes wreathed in the same yellow rays, fur seared by the same yellow light, mind marked by the same need to run.
They were made to run.
Together.
And when the light came, they would. With yellow eyes and skin burnt by wind and light, they would run until they were beyond the reach of any judgment.
The gray in the east gave way to the pre-dawn gold. A line, crisp as the edge of the alp’s sword, spread radiantly, dulling into diffuse blue.
“Come forth, you conniving little shade!”
The Masai, master of the night, had lost her pull on Ahraia.
The Dae-Mon is coming, Ahraia conveyed to the sprites, keeping her thoughts as subtle as she could. Ahraia stared out, willing the Dae-Mon up. It hadn’t risen yet, but the east continued to brighten, spreading as an imperceivable fog of light through the woods.
Higher, Ahraia thought desperately. Higher.
“They are here. I can feel her! I can tell she is here. Find them!” the Masai shouted violently. The Masai’s thoughts echoed long after her words had died. Where are you? “Where are you? I will find you!”
The Dae-Mon is coming, Ahraia projected.
A sprite’s voice followed, quivering.
“Masai? We have to leave. The Dae-Mon is coming.”
“I want these woods sealed. I want every dae-ward in Angolor watching this hill.”
A narrow slice of brilliant sky in the east burned, with the intensity of a fire so hot it, could push the night from the world.
“Shade Ahraia!” the Masai called for all the woods to hear. “I will hunt you until the ends of the worlds. There will be no peace for you. The Dae-Mon will come for you, and when it has, I will be there to find your scorched body wherever it lies. If night comes again, I promise I will feast on your shadow before I give your body to the Shad-Mon!”
33
Fire and Light
The Dae-Mon rose, lethal and swift. In moments, it chased the dark from the mountain peaks, hunted the shadows from valleys and spurned the night from the hilltop, leaving the forest red-branched and shimmering.
The sprites retreated to the deeper dark and the collective swell of enchantment receded, like winds dissipating on the tail of a storm. Only the dae-wards remai
ned, and even they withdrew to the woods. The Masai’s menace trailed away, chased by the light back to its dark.
Ahraia itched to crawl from their hiding spot, but she waited as the light swelled protectively.
The dae-wards are still out there, Losna thought, sniffing at the small opening.
Ahraia rearranged herself, pushing the quiver forward. “Half the wards think I’m the next coming of the Masai. They shouldn’t give us too much trouble.”
And the other half?
“I’ve got arrows . . . and you still have teeth.”
Where will we go? Losna thought.
“Where they won’t dare chase us,” Ahraia said.
The Endless Plains? Losna’s thoughts wavered in both hope and worry. The Masai’s spies will flood the woods between here and there. She eyed a pale raven circling the hilltop.
“Not by the path we’re taking,” Ahraia said.
Losna let out a low, quiet growl. What do you mean?
“We need to get away from this accursed hilltop first,” Ahraia whispered, “then I’ll show you.” She fumbled in the cramped space to find Hayvon’s veil. She lowered her hood and carefully wrapped her face, running it just beneath her eyes and around her head twice. It smelled of Hayvon, and of Vesta. She returned her hood over the top so that only her eyes shown out. The few clouds glowed blood red in the sky. Ahraia could feel the worry radiating from Losna.
Arrows and teeth aren’t going to dissuade the dae-wards.
“A few well-placed thoughts should do the trick. Are you ready?”
Losna quivered in answer.
Ahraia pushed the loose dirt outward, widening the closure, letting cold air and burning light stream in. Losna surged past her, scrabbling at the dirt and hurrying into the day, with tail low and ears turning about. Ahraia followed close behind. She squinted against the burn of the Dae-Mon and quickly scanned about for any wards. The moon raven cawed, a shrill shriek that set other ravens calling throughout the woods, spreading like a billowing cloud of noise that rippled and faded but didn’t die.
Caw! Caw!
Ahraia knew it was the same messenger who had delivered the Masai’s threats. She took an arrow to her bow and let it loose. It whistled and struck with a thunk, sending the raven crashing to the ground, wing over arrow. The calls faded through the woods.
You’re not going to be able to hunt every bird, Losna thought, jogging towards the darker side of the hilltop.
“That one had it coming.”
Ahraia spread a sparse web of enchantment over the forest, using it to sense any movement sifting through the woods. Branches were being pushed aside and creeping vines of tentative enchantment crawled up from the deeper shadows.
Here they come. She darted towards where she sensed a void in their movements with an arrow nocked to the string. Losna was right at her hip.
She saw the first emerge from the woods, crouching low and hurrying across the open hilltop. Others were skulking closer, like spiders moving swiftly across a shaking web. Ahraia reached out with her mind, making connections openly, unable to count how many wards were approaching.
Do you really mean to kill me? she conveyed sharply, putting an inflection on her thoughts, an echo of sorts meant to disorient and confuse them. Losna stiffened, her ears twitched.
The dae-wards stopped. One spun about as though Ahraia’s thoughts had come from behind him.
Do you? Ahraia asked, sending her voice spinning like a leaf turning on the wind. Me? Your future Masai? Me, who has returned from the Shad-Mon unharmed? Me, who walks beneath the Dae-Mon unafraid?
Ahraia stepped out from the woods and pulled her hood back. It was still shadowy and dark where she stood and she squinted against the light. But she was unharmed. Dae-wards stepped out of the shadows, staring at her openly. She felt a surge of enchantment, but it was hesitant; they were young, hardly more than shades themselves. She shed their attempts aside, having suffered far stronger bindings.
“Go back to your shadows. Leave me be and you will be granted the Night. But should you test me . . .” She envisioned arrows slamming into necks, metal tipped and barbed. She forced the thought of the drain slicing across Golan’s throat, the blood filling his mouth. And she showed them the memory of Losna tearing the throat from Gavea, the nitesse’s crumpled body falling lifelessly to the ground.
Sensing her intention, Losna stepped forward and let out a snarl that carried the weight of Ahraia’s enchantments to the wards. Her hackles were raised and she bared her teeth viciously.
Through the enchantment, the ward’s fear rippled inward, propagating from one to the next. Power and command radiated through Ahraia’s thoughts: the projection became easier, the threats deeper, their feeble bindings simpler to turn away. The dae-wards cringed as though Losna’s growl had been a physical blow.
It will be, Ahraia reminded them. A ward turned and slunk back into the forest. And then another. And then they all turned, their collective fear swelling across the hilltop. They disappeared, back to the woods.
Ahraia let out a wary breath.
“That will buy us time, but they’ll remember their true Masai soon enough. Now, go and get that orb.”
Losna jogged back to the den, scrambled in, and emerged a moment later with the orb in her teeth. It radiated out, even in the day. Ahraia shuddered, having Losna nuzzle it into her pocket. She felt a hot burn against her side—sharp but not ruinous.
She retrieved the arrow from the moon raven and slipped into the forest, dodging shafts of light and pulling her hood back up.
What’s your plan? Losna was tense, ears turning, eyes turning, tail out and balanced.
“First, we have to get out of these woods.” Ahraia hurried towards the wall, keeping a mind out for the wards but searching for the segment where she had been stung. “And then we will have to make a run for it—where they can’t possibly follow us.”
But the plains are half a turning away, Losna worried.
“Somewhere closer. Somewhere no sprite dares walk.”
Losna stopped, asking a question to which she already guessed the answer. Where?
“Back to the Shadow Woods.”
The wall of the Makers loomed menacingly before Ahraia, impossibly tight. Its facade writhed like serpents: limbs reaching to catch, branches seeking to strangle, vines and tendrils coiling to strike.
“Yesterday, I tried to make it easy for you,” Ahraia said to the wall, dropping her clutch of arrows. The serapin tree that had stung her was twisted tight, hiding the branch that she cut away and rustling threateningly at the sight of her. She dropped to a knee and dug to the bottom of the alp’s clutch, beneath her remaining arrows.
The older trees leaned over her, proud and unyielding; the younger trees stretched naively, wild and violent. Ahraia kept her distance while Losna prowled the hillside, guarding for wards. The Masai, luckily, didn’t have the power to enchant the whole forest with the same loyalty and enmity as the wall; otherwise, every step would be treacherous.
Still digging in the quiver, her fingers came across the alp’s spare string. She pulled it free and unstrung her bow. Then she gathered the driest bits of the forest: loose moss, dead twigs, and fallen pine needles.
What are you doing? Losna asked.
“Getting past this wall.” Ahraia deliberately let the words pass to the palisade, watching as it tightened mockingly.
With twigs? Losna asked doubtfully.
“With tinder.”
Losna cocked her head. Ahraia smiled, and formed a larger gathering of wood nearby. Losna looked even more worried.
“The wall won’t listen to me,” Ahraia said. She picked up more dried leaves and branches. “It won’t let me bind it.”
And how will this help?
“If it won’t bend to my will, I expect it will burn to it,” Ahraia said with a smile, letting images of flame take shape in her mind: a hungry flicker, leaping higher and hotter, crawling up vines and trunks and turning leaf t
o ash and trees to blackened bones. The wall either doubted her ability to create such havoc or didn’t understand the nature of fire. Its arms slowed warily, but it didn’t quiver or fit as she expected it to.
How are you going to do that? With the orb?
Ahraia shook her head.
Losna watched her with big, fire-bright eyes. Won’t it burn you?
“I’ll live,” Ahraia said. She took the alp’s tools that had been in the quiver and laid them out carefully, just as the alp had. She took a moment, trying to remember how he had gone about making the fire. It seemed so long ago, and she had been so intent, so foolishly insistent on making the kill rather than watching his actions. “Killing just for killing . . .” she muttered, shaking her head. She cleared her mind, remembering the alp’s process: String on bow. Wrapped around the stick. Flat, board beneath.
Ahraia restrung the bow with the longer thread, twisting it about the stick just as the alp had.
Where did you learn this? Losna thought over crooked-down eyebrows.
From an alp. For a moment, Ahraia absurdly wished he was there to make fire for her, as he had for the human. Losna let out a low growl. It made Ahraia smile all the more.
She carefully aligned the pointed stick on the alp’s flat carved board beneath. She lay it on the ground and anchored it with her foot. She sawed the bow once, the fire-stick spinning roughly against her hand—painfully. Something was missing.
She leaned back on her knees, thinking.
Board. Stick. Bow. She checked them off in her mind. She dumped the quiver out, scattering the arrows on the ground, unsure what she would be looking for. But there was nothing more within.
She stopped, sensing wards nearby.
Outside the wall, Losna thought.
Ahraia put the arrows back in the quiver.
Losna watched with fur raised stiffly. You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?
“Of course not,” Ahraia muttered. “I just saw an alp do it.”
What were you doing near an alp?
Ahraia ignored her shadow. She closed her eyes, envisioning the alp as he peacocked for the human. But she remembered his subtle looks and twitching ears better than she remembered his fire. The spindle-stick had spun freely. He had palmed something . . . something to let it spin without cutting his hand, a wooden bit. She looked towards the quiver. The piece was missing.
Between the Shade and the Shadow Page 43