by R.K. Ryals
Chapter 6
Sometime during the night I must have stopped. And once I stopped, I must have slept. Light woke me. Greenish, white light fragmented by a canopy of varying leaves above my head. I was on a bed of grass, surprisingly soft and dry. I smelled damp earth and wood.
A drop of dew slid down a leaf, dripping first onto my nose before sliding slowly down the side of my face. The water was soothing against chapped, raw skin.
I stared up into the trees above me, my head fuzzy. Brown and grey muted birds hopped from limb to limb while a squirrel ran along a branch, chittered, and then disappeared. Life.
“Aigneis,” I whispered, images bombarding me as I tried to sit up. My father. The scribes. My stepmother. The king's soldiers. Fire. Kye. Darkness. The trees.
The trees! I sat up abruptly, my eyes searching the canopy.
“Where am I?” I asked.
The leaves above me shook even though there was no breeze.
“You are a little over a day from the forest's edge, child. Men still hunt you, but they will tire soon. You are safe here.”
A little over a day? How long had I walked the night before? How long had I slept? I lifted a hand and placed it tentatively against the nearest tree's trunk. The bark seemed to quiver against my palm.
“Are you many or only one?” I asked.
The strange echoing laughter from the night before surrounded me, and I shivered. I wasn't cold. I wasn't even afraid. No, the sound made me feel . . . happy maybe? No. No, that wasn't right. It made me feel content, calm.
“We are many, but we speak often as one.”
My stomach growled then, and I placed my left hand against my stomach. My wrist protested, and I glanced down at the mark on my skin. The inkwell. The mark of the scribe.
“Your food and water are next to your bed.”
I forced my gaze away from the design on my wrist, glancing now at the water skin and cloth-wrapped parcel Kye had forced into my hands the night before. They were sitting against the bed of grass, still tightly bound. The night had become a blur for me, confusing. It surprised me that I still had the supplies.
I lifted the water skin and drank deeply. The liquid within had a stale taste, but it was still good. Refreshing. The food was poor. There was bread and cheese within the cloth, but the bread was hard and the cheese was moldy. I ate the bread anyway and scraped the mold off the cheese before eating it as well. There was dried meat, but I saved it, wrapping it once more before sliding it into a small pocket in my dress.
I said a quick prayer to Silveet, Goddess of the Forest, before I finally stood. I was dirty, my hair was tangled, and the design on my wrist had a red appearance that alarmed me. The skin was also hot, feverish.
“You will fare well, child, mark our words. You will heal, and you will remain safe within these woods. Do not worry. You already have friends within the forest. No creature of any kind will harm you.”
It was disconcerting having a conversation with someone I could not look in the face.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
Leaves rustled, and a branch swept downward, rubbing gently against my cheek before returning to its original position.
“Because you are your mother's child, dear one.”
A kek, kek filtered down from the air above, and I searched what sky I could see through the foliage. Ari.
“The falcon claims she is your protector.”
I could not get used to the voice, to the abrasive quality. It made goosebumps pop up along my skin each time the plants spoke to me.
“I saved her as an eyas,” I told the trees.
Leaves rustled once more.
“I think it is deeper than that. Your magic speaks to her. To all of us.”
I shivered. Maybe I was afraid.
“I don't understand,” I whispered.
There was laughter again.
“Ah, child. You will. Your magic can't be taught. It must be understood. Time will teach you much.”
I was definitely afraid. Lonely and afraid.
“She's dead.”
It was the first time I had said the words aloud since I had seen Aigneis burn. She was dead. Dead. Tears welled up in my eyes. They made me angry, and I swiped at my cheeks before they even had a chance to fall.
“Dead,” I repeated.
Why I said the words now when I should be worried about other things was beyond me. But it seemed right. The anger, the pain . . . it felt right.
“Such a funny thing death is for mortals. You cry. You mourn. You grieve. You get angry. But death is not always tragic, dear one. Sometimes death is the ultimate expression of love.”
My hands were over my face, my jaw tight.
“I'm not supposed to be angry?” I asked.
Leaves were touching me again, soft touches that differed from the brutal, urgent motions of the night before.
“No, child. Anger is okay. But think how much more you could accomplish if you fought now out of justice, not anger. Fear makes people run. You could walk a thousand miles, but the only thing you would be left with are blisters and exhaustion. Anger makes people careless. You could turn and face your enemy with nothing more than your bare hands, and the only thing you would be left with is your own death. Love, while beautiful, makes people foolish. Justice, however, is for the sake of many rather than for the vengeance of one.”
I looked up, my eyes on the trees.
“You think I want to fight?” I asked.
The trees went eerily still, the forest unnaturally quiet. No birds chirped, no wind stirred, and no bugs buzzed.
“No, we think you want to prevail.”