“Good, I’ll leave you to it and check on you later.” Nolo walked out then stuck his head back in. “If you get hungry, there’s some stew in back. It might still be warm, and my wife made biscuits to go with it. Help yourself. Make sure you eat something before I see you again. You’re too thin.”
Damn, Nolo intended to check on him, and he’d better be here when the man showed up. Sarn squeezed a sack of oats in frustration at the implied threat. This left only one viable avenue to gain information, one he’d used too often already today—magic. Too much magicking led to blackouts. If Nolo happened by during one of those, he’d end the night with a visit to the damned infirmary.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes—stew’s in back, eat something—I heard you.”
Sarn pushed some of the items over to make space, but his eyes kept catching on the unkindled lumir. Why had he sensed none at either murder site? What had those hikers used for light and heat? Sarn plucked a crystal from the pile. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he felt its cold roughness and the shadow coiled in its belly.
Impure, complained his magic, then it went on to list all the inclusions until Sarn dropped the rock.
It bounced off its mates causing the pile to slide towards the edge. Closing his eyes, he ran his ungloved palm over the table and felt nothing until he touched those stones. Only then did his other senses break down their composition.
Sarn recalled the cold darkness blanketing both murder sites. Could it extinguish lumir? He seized a crystal, but it lit on contact. Kindling lumir had become a reflex action over the years—damn the Rangers. Cursing, he grabbed another and dammed the magic, slowing its flow to a trickle. He narrowed his awareness down to the stone in his hand, burrowing into its heart to a waiting cavity. The rock blazed as he withdrew his senses.
Still too fast, Sarn cursed and picked up another. He drilled down, attenuating his magic until it struck a filament. It would cast its light down through the ages, radiant until its internal store of magic depleted. He kindled another and another, each time watching the process. Nolo could keep him out of the forest but not the mystery haunting it.
After an hour, Sarn set a luminous pink rock aside and staggered to the stew pot to ease the hunger cramping his gut. He was on the cusp of something, but avoiding a blackout took precedence.
While shoveling stew into his mouth with a biscuit, Sarn turned over everything he knew about lumir and its luminosity. Could the ignition process be reversed? What could strip lumir of its light and magic?
Sitting on a pile of straw dummies, Sarn surveyed the cluttered cave for an answer. Unstrung bows of every length and construction hung from pegs on the wall. One of them called to Sarn, and his magic slid along his hands yearning to touch the bow staves. It had been months since they'd let him shoot.
Three bowlfuls and four biscuits later, he left his dishes to soak in a pan of soapy water before confronting the lumir again. Sarn touched one of the lit stones and tried to withdraw the magic he’d gifted it. Nothing happened. His magic remained ensconced in the rock.
Voices caught his attention. Sarn grabbed an unlit lumir stone and drifted out of the cave fingering the stone in his hand. Magic flowed over its nooks and crannies as he listened hard. What was going on out there?
Was the Queen of All Trees still waiting for him? Was she in danger? He imagined her silver splendor surrounded by infected trees and rivers of an oily black contagion until a polite cough startled him. Dropping his gaze ten inches to the crown of a head, Sarn goggled at the radiant face of Inari then backpedaled out of the danger zone.
There were women, and there was Inari. Beautiful failed to describe her; incandescent came closer to the mark. There was an extra dimension she alone possessed. And he was staring at her like a fool. He had to look away. She was Nolo’s wife for hell’s sake.
But his eyes refused to stray from her face. Red light burst out of a lumir stone resembling congealed blood. Casting a rosy hue to her café au lait features, the stone warmed Sarn's hand as his magic dampened its fiery touch.
“I overheard my husband talking and figured I’d give you a hand.” Inari shrugged a toned shoulder.
“A hand?” Sarn repeated unable to make sense of her explanation.
“Yes, with the packs.” Inari stepped past Sarn into the chamber leaving him flabbergasted and excited.
Inari was older than him as was every woman he’d ever crushed on. She had a decade on him, which put her around thirty.
“You’ll—” Sarn trailed off as words abandoned him. Flailing about in search of something to say, he found nothing and shut his mouth.
What could he talk about with this angel? He was the dirt under her well-tailored boot heel—a whore’s unwanted bastard. Worse still, he had a bastard of his own—one he adored. But still, a child subject to the same stigma. Sarn glared at the stone in his hand feeling dirty and empty.
Thank fate his propensity for cloaks and deep hoods hid his greasy hair and filthy clothes. But his eyes glowed, showering his unwashed, stubble covered face in unflattering emerald light. He stank too, and he'd worn the same clothes for a couple of days. Soap, water, and a razor—he needed to make a date with all three the next time he had five minutes of peace.
Embarrassment burned Sarn’s face as he turned away from her sparkling cleanliness. Inari had pulled her hair into a waist-length braid, and she smelled fresh as a summer flower. He was dirt, and she was a polished diamond, so bright and beautiful it hurt to look at her.
“I can make them up myself,” he said when the silence became unbearable.
If she helped, they’d find him some other busy work to do farther from the doors. At least here he could overhear something. Sarn placed the red lumir stone into a lead-lined box.
“I have an ulterior motive for helping you.”
Sarn heard the smile in her voice and clamped down hard on the reaction her words produced. He was only twenty, and it had been awhile since— Sarn picked up a jumble of cloth and buckles and fumbled it into something resembling a pack. There was a good reason why it had been awhile since he'd slept with anyone, and the reason was a precocious child named Ran. Oh Fates, how he missed the lovable rascal.
Cramming a handful of oats into the pocket meant for them, Sarn pinned his eyes to the table and its offerings. It was safer to regard what his fingers assembled than to look at Inari. She was everything he'd ever wanted, but she was married to one of his masters.
“What did you have in mind?” Sarn asked failing to mask his inner turmoil. Now would be a terrific time for a ghost to show up or the fates-damned forest to have a tantrum. Anything to get out of this cave.
“Practice—specifically archery practice,” Inari heaved a one-shouldered shrug, oblivious to his discomfort. “I want to keep my skills sharp, and I prefer to shoot with a partner. I figured you could use the practice, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay. You didn’t look well when I last saw you.”
Well, archery practice explained the leathers clinging to her curves. Thank fate his baggy clothes hid how much he liked them. Her dark eyes probed him. What was she looking for? Oh right, signs of illness since he’d passed out at her feet yesterday.
“I don’t need a healer.” Spotting a dark stone amid the pile, Sarn reached for it. But a spark jumped from his finger to the stone turning its glow on before he made contact. Sarn gritted his teeth at more evidence of his freakishness and shoved it into a pack. If his face got any redder, he’d make a tomato jealous. Time for a topic change.
“I didn’t say you should. I know you don’t like them.”
“Doesn’t Nolo shoot with you?”
Inari shook her head as she threaded a strap through a buckle. “He doesn’t approve of my interest in such sports.”
Her casual response caught Sarn off guard. He knocked over a stack of bandages and bent to collect them and his wits too. Shadows melted into the south wall as if
some force drew them from the mountain. They left behind a void making the cave and the piles of gear scattered about lose one of its dimensions.
When Inari bent to pick up a few stragglers, he stopped her. Something strange was happening. Better if she remained ignorant of it.
“I dropped them. I’ll fetch them. It’s only fair.”
“Alright, I’ll keep the assembly line going.”
He nodded even though she couldn’t see it from her side of the table. Extending a hand, he touched the ground, and his magic crawled down the tunnel and out of the main doors.
"How's your brother doing?"
“He’s fine.” Since he followed Miren’s academic progress like a sport, Sarn rattled off his brother's test scores, paper grades, and the theses of his assignments without taking his mind off his magic. It was flowing across the meadow now. Maybe he could send it past the menhirs into the forest and—
His magic washed over the spectral feet of the ghost boy and recoiled, snapping back so fast it gave Sarn whiplash. He landed on his butt, as his head spun and pain punched him. A purple afterimage of a thirteen-pointed star in a circle danced before his eyes. Blood dripped from his nose, and he wiped it on his sleeve. Then he heard it—that foul whisper, eam’meye erator. And he still had no fricking clue what it meant.
“You've done a good job raising your brother,” Inari said, oblivious to his painful spill.
Cold buffeted Sarn as he rose and came eye to eye with the ghost child. Fear clouded those milky green orbs. What could frighten a ghost?
“Don't be embarrassed. You should be proud of him. You've earned the right." Inari squeezed his shoulder, having interpreted his silence as humility. She let go before drifting back to the table and those packs.
Quite a pile had formed while he’d mucked about with head-ache inducing magic. He still had no answers, just a feeling things were wrong and growing more so by the minute while he was stuck assembling kit bags.
Sarn nodded to Inari, thanking her without words for her support because it seemed the right thing to do. It also bought him time to regroup. With shaking fingers, he resumed stuffing whatever came to hand into the first pocket his fingers found. They were almost done.
Inari's slender fingers stilled when the warden’s voices swelled.
“You can hear them?”
Inari nodded, and her face softened as she noted his surprise.
Sarn touched his bad ear, then let his hand fall back to the pile of ribbons he’d sorted. Each pack carried the same items but in different proportions depending on the campsite.
“They’re talking about you.” Her smile slipped and flipped into a frown of concentration.
They? There was only one voice he kept hearing. Oh right, the wardens—Sarn had forgotten they were nearby. Echoes of stamping feet interrupted a mumbled monologue.
Inari laid a warm hand over his. Before Sarn could stop it, his magic scanned her, throwing a barrage of information at him, none of it sensible.
“What are they saying?”
Inari's eyes answered his question—nothing good. Sarn nodded, and she squeezed his hand before letting go. Her warmth lingered on his skin, and it felt good—too good. The magic had welcomed her touch, and so had he. She was his master’s wife for hell’s sake. He should not like her, but Fates damn him, he did.
“I know what they’re saying about me.” He needed to drive a wedge between them, to make her see him for what he was. “I’m a freak, and you know what? They’re right.” Sarn slammed the last pack down, fluttering its blue ribbon.
“You’re unique, but you’re not a freak. You’ve lived a hard life, yes, but you’ve got a good heart, and it’s always in the right place.” Her words applied a soothing balm to the cuts her husband’s remarks had made earlier. “They’re talking about what Gregori did, and they’re angry he dragged you off somewhere and ditched you.” And her eyes urged him to believe it. But dare he?
Sarn shook his head. “They don’t like me—” He found this reversal in attitude hard to swallow. But her dark eyes, so earnest in their attention, tipped unbelief into belief and knocked Sarn to a sit on the edge of the table as his world rocked around him.
She linked her arm through his and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. We’re finished here. Its Dreamer’s hour and I fancy a bit of shooting and maybe a little competition before I retire. I’ve heard you’re a natural.”
The ghost boy flashed to the cave’s entrance, arms outstretched, head shaking in terror. As if cued, the bells of Mount Eredren tolled twenty-four times, marking the hour as midnight. They echoed in the preternatural silence of the maze.
Sarn gave the ghost a reassuring look as he walked through its arm and stopped. A rat stared at him—the same one from the kitchen. The malevolence leaking off the creature made him wonder. Was there something watching him through the rat’s eyes? Was this watcher Rat Woman or someone else?
Cold, spectral fingers dug into his thigh, numbing the muscles there as the ghost pulled and failed to budge him. Sarn closed his eyes and let Inari lead him to the stronghold’s doors. If there was something bad enough to scare a ghost out there, then he had to warn Nolo, even if it meant endangering the man’s wife. Inari wouldn’t want it any other way.
The Rangers on guard stopped talking. For a moment, Sarn feared they’d seen the specter huddled against his leg or the creepy rat scurrying after them.
“Heard you knocked Gregori down flat,” commented Cyril, “you can open your eyes, Kid. There's no one around except us to see ‘em, and we know what they look like.”
Sarn did as bid and played the emerald glow of his eyes over the lanky Cyril. To his credit, the mohawk-sporting Ranger ignored the light as he searched the man’s face for anything amiss.
“Well he deserved it,” Cyril continued when Sarn failed to comment.
Maybe being the victim of Gregori’s test had earned him a measure of respect by accident. Another time, he could think on this, but right now he scanned the moonlit meadow below. Something was out there, but it waited beyond his line of sight.
“The moon’s a full one tonight,” added Bisheen from the opposite side of the giant doors showering them in pale gold light. “It’s a good night for a bit of shooting if you’re minded.”
Cyril flashed a smile at Inari. “We might have bet a small wager on our Kid beating you nine times out of ten. No disrespect meant ma’am, but the Kid’s got talent.”
And now they were complimenting him in a backhanded manner. But still, it was praise nonetheless. His face heated up. Embarrassed, Sarn nodded to the two Rangers then hightailed it to the switchback trail leading down the mountain. His gaze locked onto the impenetrable darkness blotting out the enchanted forest. Not a single leaf glowed tonight. Something had snuffed out the forest’s bioluminescence. Was it the same thing that had caused it to turn on him yesterday?
Unnatural, commented his magic.
I figured. Tell me something I don’t know like how to fix it. But his magic didn’t.
Instead, his magic increased his eyes’ glow until a green nimbus encased him, turning him into a walking target. Fan-fricking-tastic, Sarn gritted his teeth. He was a beacon calling to whatever wrongness had gripped his land.
But his radiance highlighted trip hazards, making the descent less treacherous. Inari’s grateful smile warmed Sarn all the way to his toes until the ghost boy’s icy fingers recalled his attention. Now wasn’t the time to revel in her company.
At the bottom of the trail, they stepped onto the meadow. Nothing stirred the long grasses, not even the wind. Thickets of arrows stuck point first into the ground a hundred yards from their respective targets. Inari unslung a leather tube and removed a recurve bow. She strung it and waited while Sarn did the same with a longbow someone had left for him.
Someday he would teach his son to shoot, but he put the thought out of his mind so he could concentrate on calling out the wrongness.
Holding the bow in his right hand, Sarn withdrew an arrow from the ground. Stop dicking around and show yourself. I dare you. You don’t frighten me.
But it should, and the thought gave Sarn pause. His gaze strayed to the shuddering ghost boy hiding its face in his pant leg. The specter peeked at Sarn, and its pale, terrified eyes pleaded with him to stop.
“I can’t,” he whispered to the ghost. “I have to do this.”
Magic rolled over the flint arrowhead in his hand turning it a radiant green. Connection established, Sarn nocked, sighted and drew on the bow feeling muscles in his upper back pull tight. He released the arrow, and it sped past the standing stones into the darkness beyond. His will flew with the shaft and its sensory payload. The string slapped his right forearm, but he ignored its sting.
Landing point first in the dirt, a remnant of his magic dispersed into the ground and dashed back to him, sending flashes of roots, rocks, and leaves—all of them motionless. Why were they still? Their immobility raised his hackles.
To keep up the ruse, Sarn fired two arrows at the target hitting it dead center. He grabbed another arrow and shot it south toward the river. Nothing there either—was he losing his mind?
A blur dashed up Common Rock and perched on its top. Its beady eyes glared at Sarn as its body tensed, readying for something. It was too far away to attack him or Inari and too small to do much harm. Aiming high, Sarn fired two more arrows targeting other sections of the forest. Had something broken its enchantment? What the hell was he mixed up in?
A nudge here or there kept the two projectiles defying gravity far longer than any arrow should, as he curved their trajectories. Sarn fired off three more at the straw target planting them in a tight cluster to satisfy the Rangers watching from the cliff then resumed sending arrows into the forest hunting for information.
His last arrow bounced off a tree rousing it, proving its enchantments still held—thank Fate. The arrow plummeted until something plucked it out of the air and snapped the shaft in half. After dropping the broken arrow, a blurry figure ground it under his boot and advanced.
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