A Trail of Embers

by C A Kinnee

  Now both men were staring at her. She shifted her feet, trying to decide if continued silence was her best action.

  “We go now. Move, girl!” The vicious one grabbed her shoulder shoving her forward.

  Meara had no choice, but to move in the direction he propelled her. She had to protect the egg. She would bide her time and hope for a chance to steal back the amulet.

  The egg hummed softly, trying to boost her courage.

  “Can you think of a way out of this mess?” she asked sourly.

  The hum stopped and a humorless smile touched her lips. She hadn’t expected an answer. The dragon hadn’t hatched. There could be no hope of rescue from a creature without access to fire-breathing and havoc-wrecking.

  She was on her own unless Kieran miraculously appeared, but the lack of thunderclaps and lightning bolts chased away even that hope. She crossed her arms hugging the egg. She would wait and see what developed. The two were bickering again. Perhaps, they would kill each other with the wicked knives they carried.

  Another shove indicated they had come to a decision. The discussion was over. The bigger one took the lead, placing her in the middle to be prodded forward by the mean one. The point of his knife left pinpricks in her back as they set off down the trail.

  Chapter 18

  Danger—be wary.

  Wait—watch!

  In the darkness

  pay heed.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Kieran pushed harder, covering the trail in a ground-swallowing rush. His feet churned the mud, his eyes searched the path in front of him. The hot pool was close, but every step he took felt like he was moving at a snail’s pace. When he reached the pool, Meara would be gone. He knew that without a doubt. He had found other tracks as he retraced his path—two men—a hunting party. The final proof was the mandagar stag left on the side of the trail. Miandrogas had a distinctive way of hunting—they took the choicest cuts and left the brunt of the meat to rot. The waste sickened Kieran. His people could have eaten for a week on the carcass.

  The clearing where the jargon attacked was ahead. He skirted it and climbed to the top of the rocky ledge. Half-sliding, half-running, he dropped down the rock face he and Meara had sat on earlier. As he neared the pool, he slowed to a careful glide. Soft bird song trilled. Tiny ground-dwelling creatures stirred in the brush. Aside from those sounds, the forest was silent. Its serenity was a prelude to what the people of Helligon called, the silver time—the time when the forest rested, the creatures gathering their energy for the coming night. Kieran’s heart sat like a heavy rock in his chest.

  The pool was deserted. Its steaming water shimmered in the fading light. Warm mist mingled with the fine spray of rain and hung in wispy fog. Kieran reached the edge of the pool and bent to study the marks left by Meara’s sandals. The blocky sandals with their wooden heels left a distinctive stamp in the mud. What he had once considered a curse was now a blessing. He could track her, unless they forced her to walk barefoot.

  Be calm. Think. Panicking wouldn’t help find her. He rocked back on his heels and forced himself to concentrate. He needed serenity to use his gift of discovery. The skill would let him understand what had happened. Closing his eyes, he focused inward, filtering out the sounds of the forest, controlling his breathing and slowing his heart rate—opening himself to the spell. Gradually a flickering image filled his mind. Violence. Fear. Anger. His eyes snapped open. The Miandrogas had appeared without warning. Meara had no chance to defend herself.

  She would run though. The first chance to escape, she would flee. Witnessing the jargon’s kill had given Kieran and her a bond. That bond told him she was near. She knew that he would come after her.

  He traced the edge of a blurred moccasin print. In the thick mud at the edge of the pool, they couldn’t hide their tracks. There were two sets, two men, as he had thought, likely hunters. It didn’t matter. Miandrogas were all the same. Chased from the land of Helligon, they spent their days preying on passing caravans. They robbed and murdered without remorse, selling captives into slavery and supplying the Mage with information about the First and Helligon. Miandrogas had carried out the attack on the caravan that had held the First’s wife and child so long ago. The Mage probably had a hand in that as well.

  Kieran straightened. Meara wouldn’t meet that fate. He would find and rescue her. He shouldered his bow and in a blur of soft gray cloak, melted into the mist.

  ***

  Meara sat with her back to a tree watching her captors. One had pulled a flask from his cloak; the other had started a small fire at the edge of the clearing. She glared at the men. She was already plotting her next escape attempt. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, hoping to loosen the stiff muscles. She wanted to close her eyes and let exhaustion take her but the lump on her cheek burned. She’d earned that slap for not moving fast enough. Her head throbbed with a pounding that equaled the thud of one of the ceremonial drums the Godseekers used to summon their followers. Her feet ached from the fast run they had forced on her.

  Darkness was now her friend. Its shadows sheltered her from the leers of the men. Sitting upright was too much effort. She slumped against the tree trunk and tried to forget the nightmarish trip through the forest. She concentrated on making a list of the hurts the men had inflicted on her. Her ribs—a kick for every stumble—the ache in her scalp—a bump for every yank. Her left eye—she paused and felt the lid. It was stiff and swollen and drooped to shroud her vision. She had brought that one on herself when she’d tried to slow their pace and leave a sign for Kieran. He was out there somewhere—behind them—using his tracking skills. He wouldn’t abandon the egg or her.

  She swallowed against a lump in her throat. She had tried to warn Kieran. Had her attempt caused his death? The men had let her stop to relieve herself, and she’d left a stone with a string torn from her cloak pointing the way—a feeble attempt to leave a trail. The men had kicked and cursed her, pushing her to run faster. She thought she had gotten away with her warning until the smaller man left them. When he caught up with them a few hours later he’d dangled the string from one stubby finger. He’d swiped the other hand across his throat with a quick slashing gesture. His wolfish smile, coupled with the quick satisfied words he muttered to his partner shriveled her hopes like a dried-out apple. She sent a quick plea to the Great One asking him to watch over Kieran.

  Slowly, she worked her sandals off and peered at the blisters lining her heels. Add those to the count. She gently rubbed the broken skin.

  The men didn’t bother to tie her. They didn’t have to. She wouldn’t run. She had tried once during the forced march. They had found her easily, playing a game of cat and mouse, tracking her while letting her think that she had gotten away. As the heady sense of freedom enveloped her, they’d pounced, coming out of the dim light one on either side of the trail. That beating had been especially vicious. Now with the forced run over for a while, she could feel every place a blow had landed. Her head spun and she closed her eyes.

  ***

  The dream unfolded slowly, wrapping around her like the touch of gentle wings.

  “Meara, don’t hold it. Let your mind reach. Feel the beauty of the music. Dance with it. That’s it.” The deep voice was patient and encouraging. Delighted laughter encircled her.

  “She is just like you,” the woman spoke, love evident in the melody of her voice.

  “No, like her mother,” the deeper voice answered.

  “I never had the ability she does,” the woman said sweeping Meara up and swinging her through the air.

  The dark man looked on and smiled, the expression at odds with the harsh planes of his face.

  “You have ability.”

  More laughter.

  ***

  Meara woke. The raucous sound of the men’s laughter chased away her sleep, but the memory of the dream swirled in her head. By the dim light of the flames, she could tell that they were drinking ag
ain, arguing as always. One stood and crossed to her. He poked her and then smiled. Meara sagged against the tree trunk. She had nowhere to run. Slowly he reached towards her. His grimy hand touched her hair. Meara swallowed. He caught a handful of hair in his fist and yanked her head back so that she had to look at him.

  “You drink.” He forced the mouth of his flask between her teeth and poured some of its contents down her throat.

  Meara choked and gagged on the fiery liquor, trying to spit it out. Her reaction brought a new round of guffaws.

  “She wastes it. I drink for her.” The man raised the flask in a mocking toast and guzzled it down.

  “You bring it here.” The rest of the words were lost in the fast lilting flow of their language.

  Once more forgotten, Meara relaxed against the tree. The gulp of liquor burned through her veins driving back her weariness. Fear and hatred battled inside her. Fear won. She was powerless. The memory of the last beating kept her immobile under the tree as if they had chained her. Self-loathing wrestled against her fear.

  At last, the men were quiet. Whatever the potent alcohol was, it made them sleepy. They peered owlishly at her.

  “You no run. If you do, we catch you. Things will be worse.” It wasn’t just a threat, it was a promise—one he would enjoy delivering.

  Meara nodded, shrinking back to the shadows. The men returned to the meat they were roasting over the fire. The smell of it hung over the glade. Her stomach turned. Her hunger was long gone. She wanted only solitude to sleep and dream. There she would find the golden woman and the dark man. Maybe she could find peace.

  ***

  This time when she closed her eyes, she drifted into a nightmare. Darkness had fallen. The glow of campfires lit the clearing in front of her. In the quiet, the soft whisper of conversation lulled the scattered group with a sense of safety. Screaming split the silence. Arrows flew. Blood. The golden woman snatched Meara up and ran. She staggered and fell, dragging the child to the muddy red earth.

  “I can’t . . . Run, Meara, use the amulet.”

  “But I can’t,” the childish voice quavered. In her dream, the voice hung like a distant echo.

  “Try . . . Like before . . . reach out. Find . . .” The woman dropped, her beauty fading, ebbing with the tide of blood flowing from her veins.

  Meara reached. She was alone.

  ***

  Meara bolted upright. Pain slammed through her. Reach. It was as though the golden woman was beside her, whispering in her ear. Meara’s hand touched her neck, forgetting for a moment that the amulet was gone. Her fingers fell empty to her sides. Reach . . . She stared across the shadows at the fire. The men were snoring. If only . . . No, she couldn’t. They would find her. Her head dropped back to her chest and she stared at her bare feet. Unless . . . She thought about the amulet and its trick. She had never tried the gift of invisibility without holding the amulet. The act of reaching carried with it a music that wrapped her up in its folds and let her see inside herself. No, she closed her eyes—without the amulet, she had nothing. The music was as distant as a far-off star.

  “But you could try,” the egg coaxed. “Would you give up so easily?”

  “No,” Meara answered.

  She would try. She owed that to the golden woman. She dug her back into the tree and stifling a groan, forced herself up. Exhausted by that small task, she leaned against the trunk, mustering her strength while waiting for the nauseating tilt of the world to stop. In the gloom, she could barely see the bulk of her cloak and the dim shine of the egg by the fire. The amulet rested on top of it. If only she could touch it.

  “You must reach.” The voice of the egg was stronger.

  Meara shivered. She reached, feeling the tiny sense of unfolding as the music called her. She took a sliding step forward opening herself to the dance.

  Pain exploded through her head. She clenched her jaw to stop an anguished howl from escaping. Slowly, the subtle sense of shifting marked her fading. She looked at her feet and saw nothing. Afraid to stop, she staggered to the side of the fire and gathered the cloak, egg and amulet into her arms. Her head swam with dizziness. She pushed herself forward. If she didn’t go now, she would never get away. She ran. She could do this.

  Chapter 19

  Danger—be wary.

  Wait—watch!

  In the darkness

  pay heed.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Nightfall nudged aside the weaker twilight and draped the forest in darkness. Overhead the moon fought the thick clouds that tried to trap it. The trail signs Kieran followed had long vanished, swallowed up by the gloom, but there was something new here—something that brought a grim smile to his tired face. The glow of stovrek coated the path in front of him—a ghostly memory of Meara’s passage.

  At last fate had given him a chance. By leaving the stovrek on her cloak and sandals, Meara had ensured the trail that he’d struggled to follow by daylight was a well-lit path by night.

  Kieran was all too familiar with stovrek’s powers of illumination. The scouts of Helligon used it to teach their apprentices not to value their skills too highly. Only one lesson was needed—avoid it—especially when keeping your life meant covering your trail. The dust—invisible by daylight—at night glowed with a life of its own.

  Kieran had learned that lesson at the hands of a master. Daalean, his mentor, said Kieran was too cocky, that he didn’t pay enough attention to detail. To prove it, Daalean sent him into the forest to practice his skills at evasion. Kieran hadn’t worried. He knew that he could outwit the older slower scouts any time. Passing through the trees without detection was child’s play. What he hadn’t known was that the treacherous Daalean had coated the bottom of his cloak with a thick layer of stovrek. Kieran had left a trail that guided the scouts straight to him. They still hadn’t let him forget his mistake.

  That same stovrek powder covered this trail. Time or water would eventually extinguish its eerie glow, but for now, there was enough dust on Meara’s cloak and sandals to make sure the tracks lasted until dawn.

  Kieran shifted his pack and straightened. Night gave him a trail, and the moon’s victory over the clouds stopped the rain. Time was his enemy. He had until daybreak to find her. The tight set of the muscles in his back and neck reminded him of how short that time was.

  “Daylight,” he said. “You have until daylight.”

  After that—he shook his head—he’d face that problem when he had to. Digging into his pack, he pulled out a piece of dried mandagar and stuffed it into his mouth. Breaking into a trot, he followed the glow of Meara’s steps past low-lying reaches of heartvine and over rocky outcrops. The night creatures barely marked his passage. If he weren’t so consumed by worry, he would have enjoyed the solitude of the silent run.

  He kept his pace at a steady lope, scanning the trail for any change in the markers. He didn’t expect there to be any. Miandrogas were lazy. Once they found a trail, they stuck to it. They rarely traveled by night, preferring instead, to set up camp and pass the time drinking and tormenting their victims. He pushed the thought away. Meara was street smart and fiery. By now, they probably regretted snatching her. He smiled. He almost felt sorry for the Miandrogas.

  They would think she belonged to Helligon. She looked too much like one of the forest people to be anything else. Since she carried none of the badges of a scout, they would think her lost or a runaway. He had covered his tracks when he’d left her by the pool. The Miandrogas would believe she was alone.

  Kieran sobered. His smile faded. The episode with the worm brought back Daalean’s other teachings. This wasn’t a game. There was no second chance if you made a mistake. If he was lucky, the men he followed wouldn’t know he was there. Likely, they had seen Meara and snatched her by chance. Miandrogas thought in terms of immediate gain. They didn’t worry about consequences.

  They had a few hours’ head start but he would catch them. With stovrek dust marking the tr
ail, he wouldn’t have to slow down. All he had to do was run . . . and worry. Miandrogas were brutal. He’d learned that lesson when raiders attacked the far settlements of the forest people. Kieran’s youngest uncle, Praile, had hungered for adventure. Hot-headed and hasty, he had quarreled with Daalean over how to train the scouts. When the First refused to hear his arguments, Praile uprooted his small family and took them to the fringe of the forest to start a new life in the outer settlements. Kieran idolized his uncle. He was a man of action who didn’t sit quietly in stodgy council meetings arguing decisions like a group of oldsters in a sewing circle. If Kieran’s father, Kaladin, had permitted, Kieran would have gone with his uncle.

  At first, when the rumors of Miandrogas raiding reached Helligon, they were met with disbelief. Miandrogas were too undisciplined to attack a settlement. When the scouting party the First sent out failed to return, Kaladin himself headed a mission to discover their fate. He had taken Kieran along, for once leaving Orlan behind. Kieran had celebrated Orlan’s loss as his gain. In the end, Kieran was the loser—a fact that still haunted him.

  They reached the small settlement on the third day. Aside from a hound scratching through the rubble, it was devoid of life. The stench of smoke lingered in the morning mist. The memory still haunted Kieran. Miandrogas killed without compunction, but first they toyed with their victims. Praile had tried to defend his family. The raiders left him pinned to an ancient cedar, a long blade thrust through his chest. The blade, placed to the right of his heart, ensured Praile could watch his family taken and his men murdered. Praile breathed his last as Kaladin gently lowered him to the ground. Kaladin had kept the heavy blade used to pin Praile to the tree. He said one day the circle of revenge would close. Of Praile’s wife and baby girl—there was no sign.

  This time it would be different. He would find Meara by morning. His jaw clenched. He wasn’t worried about the egg. Meara would protect it. He ran harder, trying to outpace the darkness of the memories as the eerie trail stretched into the night.