by C A Kinnee
***
The river closed over Meara’s head as she came to the end of her feet first slide down the muddy bank. She sat up, waist-deep in the slow-running water. The cold bathed her aches and numbed her bruises. She climbed to her feet wincing as her hands slipped across the jagged face of a slime-covered rock. Icy water splashed her cheeks, stealing her breath and shocking her back to alertness. Beneath her feet, the river rock was slippery. Fool, she cursed herself. Who leaves their shoes behind when making an escape? But she had been afraid to wake the ugly ones. She’d had enough of their company.
Following the curve of the river was easier than fighting her way through the trees. Kieran would be pleased, Meara thought with a grim smile. He always said, “Hide your trail in water.” She hugged the egg closer and tried not to look at the steep banks on either side of her. An intricate nest of twining vines dropped from the great trees above, barricading the edges of the water in a formidable fence. Erosion had cut deep holes in the verge, and the trees stood over the water as if looking down at the passing river. There was no way she could climb the banks. She didn’t have the strength. She waded onward.
Time slowed and melted in the rush of water. As the hours stretched and thinned, Meara’s senses stretched and thinned. Any effort to concentrate left her feeling empty and brittle. She didn’t think of Kieran. Another thought added to the overflowing pool in her head and she would shatter into a million pieces. She couldn’t see her hands in front of her face. Was she invisible—or cloaked by the night sky?
Head down, she pressed forward, concentrating on forcing one foot in front of the other. The current complicated her efforts. It beat past her legs, driving them out from under her until finally, exhausted, she gave in to the pull. The water caught her up, saturating her cloak and sucking her downward. The surge carried her wherever the river willed.
Broken tree roots reached for her—grasping hands that caught at her woolen cloak and forced her under. Choking, Meara struggled to the surface, fighting to regain her footing on the uneven rocks. Her ankle twisted and she sank to the bottom. Panicked, she kicked her way to the surface. The egg squeaked.
The rush of water tossed her against a boulder. She sucked in a mouthful of river water. Coughing and sputtering, she grabbed at the water and came up empty-handed. Her head broke the surface. Gasping, she floundered, grappling for solid ground. She stumbled into a back eddy and caught her balance. Wrapping her arms around a smooth-edged rock, she resisted the pull of the current.
“Egg, are you hurt? Answer me.” Her alarm almost buried the egg’s reply.
“Dragons are creatures of fire, not water. You must be more careful.”
Meara closed her eyes in relief. The egg was miffed, but unharmed. Opening her eyes, she peered up at the sky. The moon gleamed whitely against the velvet blackness. Gray clouds scudded across its surface, leaving the dull light to weave looming monsters of the tall trees. She shuddered.
“We’ll stick to the river. The forest . . .” she paused. Speaking to the egg usually calmed her, but she this time she couldn’t bring herself to put her thoughts into words.
“The forest has creatures we have no knowledge of. I fear the dark. Dragons are creatures of light and fire,” the egg said, agreeing.
They would follow the river a while longer. Kieran said it would cover a trail. If that were true, she'd walk in the river until her feet shriveled like prunes. The night was cold, but she no longer felt its bite. The egg bathed her in soft warmth. She couldn’t see the egg in the blackness, but she could feel its weight against her side. Sticking to the shallows, she waded on.
***
The brush at the edge of the glade was as silent as the dark trees surrounding him. Kieran squinted up at the thick clouds. Even if they hadn’t hidden the moon, he would be invisible. His gray cloak shrouded him from head to toe—he was one with the shadows.
Spiky branches poked him, a night crawling bug scuttled across his hand. He sat patiently motionless, studying the open area. The Miandrogas’ fire had dwindled to a glowing bed of coals. Nearby the shapeless bulk of the two men was barely discernible. Kieran frowned in disgust. They were so confident they weren’t followed that they hadn’t bothered posting a watch. Both men were curled beneath their cloaks snoring heavily.
Kieran rose and drifting from tree to bush continued his study as he circled the encampment. Where was Meara? Was he wrong? He paused, thinking back over the trail. He had seen her tracks in traces of stovrek dust where no plant grew. She had to be here—somewhere. He straightened and spied an uneven shadow near his feet. Slowly, he stretched out his hand and touched the leather strap of a sandal. The sandal glowed. Meara had been here. His gaze returned to the snoring men. Somehow, she had escaped and was now alone, making her way through the forest.
The thought brought him to his feet ready to charge forth to look for her, but another glance at the sleeping men stopped him. How had she escaped? Though lazy, Miandrogas had almost supernatural hunting senses. They were known for their ability to spirit away their captives, never leaving a trail. Kieran knew that—the knowledge was forever engraved in his memory. He had found them because the men didn’t know of Meara’s habit of squishing the soggy, sacked leaves of stovrek. If the raiders slept, she had to be near.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the grainy stubble of whiskers on his chin. His eyes burned with a prickly grit. The night before, after leaving Vendonne, he had slept like a baby while Meara tossed and turned, calling out in her dreams. She would be exhausted, blundering through the trees with no more caution than a corbin kit. Kieran frowned. The forest didn’t allow carelessness. Meara had no idea of the dangers she faced.
Kieran studied the sleeping raiders. They didn’t realize their captive had flown, maybe they never would. He hefted his long bow and reached behind to fetch an arrow. Could he kill two sleeping men without warning? Yes, without an ounce of remorse. It meant two less vermin to prey on unwary travelers. Maybe even a small revenge for the broken body and lost family at the edge of the forest so long ago.
He blinked and stared harder. In the dim light of the dying fire, he could just make out the shape of the flask between them. The liquor had leaked onto the mossy ground and a dark shadow moved from it to the men. Kieran dropped the arrow back into his quiver. He wouldn’t have to soil his hands with the deaths of these two. They were as good as dead, if not now, by morning. No one had a cure for the bite of the amosa. Each of the bug’s twelve tiny legs carried a potent venom. When they touched their victim’s skin, the poison traveled down the hairs to the pores beneath spreading the poison and bringing death.
The men, drunk on their fiery liquor, hadn’t realized the mossy hump they laid their heads on was an amosa hill. The shadow between the Miandrogas seethed. It was a big colony. By now, the venom had ensured their sleep was permanent. Kieran didn’t bother hiding the noise of his rising. The men wouldn’t hear him.
***
Meara wrapped her fingers around a trailing root and dragged herself up from the rushing river. The rough bark jabbed her hands and scraped her palms. Merdon. Was she never going to be able to rest? Was there anywhere in the forest that was free of things that bit, spit, hissed, or growled. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself hand over hand up the bank. Rocks and dirt tumbled behind her, cascading into the rushing water below. If she lost her grip on the root . . . she tightened her hands around it. She wouldn’t let go. The cold numbed her and her chilled limbs no longer felt the sting of the night air. Once or twice, the egg had called to her, but she’d pushed it aside. She only cared about planting one foot in front of the other. Now with no current to fight, she didn’t know if she was capable of even that simple task.
At some point, the web of invisibility had slipped away. In the fading darkness, she could see her arms stretched in front of her. She looked at the purpling bruises as if they belonged to someone else.
A last heave on the vine and she reached the saf
ety of the river bank. She collapsed onto the loose stones leading to the river’s edge. Tiny lights flickered around her. She stared at a ball of light, watching it flit past a scraggly bush to the left of her foot. The lighted darted in and out of the ragged leaves. Were they frightlights from the travelers’ tales, come to say her name and lure her to her death? Should she follow them? Would they lead her to goblins waiting in the bush ready to pounce?
The lights skimmed the ground in front of her. Breathy whispers called her. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the energy to respond. Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She was immune to the lure of the sparkling lights. The frightlights danced over her head and shoulders, brushing her body. Unable to invoke a reply, they gave up and fluttered deeper into the forest in search of another victim. The trees smothered their light and they flickered from sight.
Meara lapsed into the world of dreams. Free of her body’s anchor, she raced through the shadows. Someone called her. The voice grew louder. It was the dark man—alone now. He stood on a great precipice, his hard face locked in shadow. A single glittering tear hung on his granite cheek. He turned as if sensing her presence. She fled into the darkness.
Back she spun, the dreamscape unfolding beneath her. The house in the forest was quiet . . . no laughter, no golden woman and child. The remains of a caravan fell before her. Broken wagons like the bones of great beasts littered the forest floor. Crying voices called her. She moved away. Fear sucked her into a swirling pool. People and lights shifted through the trees. A big man reached for her, offering the amulet. She snatched it away as he spoke. She didn’t understand his words. Mama? Papa? Where are you? I am alone.
Meara’s eyes popped open. The dream receded. Her heart pounded, shutting out the sound of the river as she strained to catch her breath. She had run a thousand miles in her sleep, but now with awakening, pain returned to rack her body. She struggled to a sitting position, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Where was she? She reached out with her mind, grasping for answers.
“Are you there?” she asked.
“. . . at last. I’ve tried to wake you.”
“Where are we? Do you know?” She ignored the egg’s wounded tone.
“The forest,” was his surly reply.
She tried again, striving for patience. “I realize that, but where? Do you know?”
“I sense nothing. Until you spoke, there was only darkness. Where did you go? You left me.” The egg sounded like a frightened child, lost and then recovered.
“I slept. I dreamed,” Meara answered, falling silent as she thought of the dreams. She could see the faces of the man and woman clearly, as if she held them in the palm of her hand. But why? “Who were they?”
“I think they are your past.” The tiny voice sounded hesitant, puzzled. “To discover the answer, you must keep to the path we travel.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I must return to my nest. My strength fades. I need the fire of my mother. You must find a way to bring us to her.”
They lapsed into silence. Words weren’t necessary. They took comfort in each other’s company as she watched the soft light of morning touch the tips of the trees.
Chapter 20
Danger—be wary.
Wait—watch!
In the darkness
pay heed.
Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg
Morning awoke to a weeping of raindrops. Each one reflected Kieran’s fading hope. During the night he’d pushed himself hard, flitting like a ghost around glowing patches of stovrek and sleeping clusters of heartvine. Now with the waning of the moon, only a faint glimmer marked Meara’s trail. It ended here—at the edge of the river where the stony bank dropped to kiss the water. Kieran rubbed the sweat from his eyes and blinked away the grit.
The forest was waking to the sound of fresh bird song. In front of him, the giant cedars and leafy alders speckled with new leaves, gave way to an ancient elm tree. The grandfather tree stretched its freshly budded branches to the sky. Legend said the tree was an entrance marker to the underworld—that those seeking succor could find answers at its base. Kieran snorted. It was a fairy tale. If it were that easy, he would sit down right now. He hesitated. Maybe the tree spirits would recognize his need and give him the energy to keep going. He snorted in disgust and rolled his eyes—he'd stop and catch his breath.
Dropping his pack to the ground beside him he leaned against the rough bark of the elm’s trunk. The deep ridges of bark bit into his shoulders. His legs were on fire, burning with the pain of muscles pushed too long without a stop. He ignored the ache and concentrated on the twin link. Orlan had to be near. He could feel the faint buzz that marked his presence.
Sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes. He scrunched them shut and rubbed them with his fists before opening them to stare out at the passing river. Had Meara listened and buried her tracks in the water? It would make finding her harder. Up or down? Could she swim? Would she fight the current or follow the sweep of the river?
Pushing off from the tree, he crossed to the bank and stared down the steep slide of mud leading to the river. This was the only place he’d found with easy access to the water. Everywhere else the tangle of roots and trees made a fence that only the smallest animal could burrow beneath. He narrowed his eyes and examined the river bank trying to decide if the dimples in the mud were made by hooves or feet. Feet. Relief spread through him. For once she had listened. She’d found a way into the river and fallen or slid down the bank.
He bent, cupped his hands and gulped thirstily. The current sifted through his fingers, and he raised his head to look in the direction the water flowed. The river rushed past its field of scattered boulders, carving a path, digging a trench through the forest. It was the start of the spring run-off. It was late this year, delayed by the long winter. Meara would follow the force of the water. She would be too exhausted to do anything else.
“Kieran . . .”
“Orlan?”
“Who else?” The distant voice was worried and impatient. “We come in answer to your call. The Mage has left Laurana. Our spies find no trace of him but we think he’s hunting the egg. If that is true, be doubly wary, brother.”
“Orlan, I . . . the egg has bonded.”
Silence greeted him.
“I couldn’t stop it. It happened before I found it.” Kieran waited stubbornly for Orlan’s answer. He wasn’t going to defend himself to his twin.
“Then you must guard the bonded one. We come as fast as we dare, but there are other dangers. The Dragon stirs. The council works to prolong her sleep. Hurry to us—to the caves.”
“Orlan, you have to . . .”
“I can do nothing, brother. Yours is the task that must not fail.”
“Damn you, Orlan. The egg—”
Orlan left him.
“Damn you, Orlan,” Kieran muttered. “Must everything be a puzzle? Other dangers! Tell me what they are. Don’t let me stumble into them. Say, ‘The rain will pour from the sky,’ instead of babbling useless riddles.”
Kieran glared at the scattered clumps of chalice flowers speckling the river bank. He wished his twin was next to him. He would show him what he thought of his wizardly mysteries.
Overhead a raven rumbled. Kieran looked up to see the bird sitting on a narrow branch. The branch dipped, raining blossoms onto the mud. The bird rode the bounce of the bough, staring at Kieran with sharp ebony eyes. A single white feather showed in the darkness of its wing.
Kieran nodded in response to the bird’s gaze. It didn’t surprise him that Murkwing had found him. The people of the forest considered the raven a bird of mystery and knowledge. It seemed only natural it could locate him in the midst of the forest. The townspeople, ruled by their superstition, treated all black birds, crow or raven the same—shoot first.
He thought about the old rhyme from his childhood. “One it be bad, two may bring luck, three looks for health, four maybe wealth.
Five beware sickness, six brings but death.” Maybe it wasn’t so odd that the people of the town were so quick to shoot. To them, one black bird was the same as another, something to avoid.
The black bird in question shuffled restlessly on its branch and squawked. Had it spotted Meara and come to find him? Kieran rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. Right, and the Mage of Remarne gave birthing day gifts to all newborns. The raven, though clever, was still a bird.
Kieran shouldered his bow and pack. Meara would follow the river and he would do the same. He had no other choice. If he stuck to the bank, he’d lose her trail in the roots and brush lining the verge.
Forcing the pack higher on his shoulder, he stepped into the water, gasping as the chill struck him. The late spring run-off meant that ice still covered the rivers at higher elevations. His boots buffered him from the brunt of the cold. The rocks were slippery. The constant barrage of water had scrubbed the surface of the boulders clean, leaving them as smooth as glass. He hesitated, measuring the tug of the water surging past his legs. The force made it hard to keep his balance and almost washed him off his feet. He took a step. The power of the river pushed his leg up and out. He scrambled to catch hold of an overhanging branch and pulled himself out of the water onto a flat rock.
The other bank was a long stone’s throw away. Between here and there, the current was wild and changeable, carving away the dirt, burrowing under rocks and baring the massive roots of the great trees. Giant boulders dotted the water’s surface, smooth and round like marbles. Most were set close enough to hop from rock to rock. To stay dry, all he had to do was catch his balance and . . . he jumped, making the transition to the next rock.
When they were boys, he and Orlan spent hours hopping from rock to rock. He could do this. His next hop was more confident, but less accurate. He barely stopped himself from sliding into the river. A few more hops and his old skills returned. He made his way down the river, hopping, centering, and hopping again.