by L. L. MacRae
‘Nadja. You should do something!’
‘It’s not my mission.’
‘But he…is he dying?’
Nadja pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head.
The man’s fit overcame him, his body rigid as his limbs thrashed about. He let out a howl of anguish, hands clawing at his own face, nails drawing blood.
Apollo turned his horse and urged her over to him. But the chestnut mare got no further than five or six steps, before Nadja held him fast. He glared at the Inquisitor. ‘What are you doing? We have to help!’
‘No, Apollo.’ Nadja backed her own horse up, pulling Apollo’s with her.
He could see her lip tremble, her fingers shake where she held the reins. Did she want to help? ‘I know you have orders, but this is a man’s life! What if he—’
‘He is one of the lost souls. Torsten believes they are traitors to the crown.’
‘Traitors?’ Apollo couldn’t believe it. He looked down. His wrists were bound but his feet were free. With considerable effort, he heaved himself to the side, swinging his leg up and over the horse’s back, and tumbled to the ground. Letting out a groan, he got to his feet and sprinted across the courtyard—past all the people who stood and stared at the seizing man and did nothing—uncaring about Nadja’s shouts to him.
Apollo skidded to a halt beside the man. His jerking movements had subsided, but blood ran down his cheeks, and his whole body trembled.
‘So…cold…’
‘It’s okay, you’ll be okay.’ Apollo knelt down beside him, bound wrists on the man’s shoulder, hoping he would feel reassured. ‘A doctor will be here soon.’
Again, the man moaned and coughed. More blood trickled down one nostril.
‘I’m Apollo. I’m here with you,’ he said, trying to impart as much comfort as he could. ‘What’s your name? Where are your family?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know! It’s all gone…I…I can’t remember anything!’ His words dissolved into unintelligible grunts. His skin was almost grey, with dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in some time.
Without his memories, the man was lost. Truly lost. He understood now why Nadja and the other Inquisitors were referring to them as lost souls. And he was dying. How was that possible?
‘It’s okay. You aren’t alone.’ Apollo didn’t know what to do. He looked around at the faces gathered, expressions a mixture of shock and disgust.
Another tremble from the man. Another hacking cough.
Apollo tried to inject some humour into his words. ‘Were you poisoned? You don’t look too well, I’ll be honest. Not after what you’ve done to your cheeks! Does anyone here have any glinoc paste?’
The crowd murmured in low conversation, but no-one rushed forward to aid him. No-one offered help. Not even the priestess.
‘Apollo.’ Nadja’s voice cut through the conversation. She remained atop her piebald, her iron dagger clutched. ‘You can’t do anything for him.’
Apollo ignored her. Was this the work of the Myr? Was he responsible for this man’s pain? Terror? ‘He’ll be fine! He needs to rest.’
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d seen many people die. From battle wounds, starvation, from disease. He knew the lad didn’t have long left, but he refused to let him die scared and alone, when at a shrine of all places, he should receive care and compassion.
Nadja, to her credit, allowed Apollo to sit with the man as he died.
Once his breathing quickened, his death wasn’t far behind. Nadja spoke with the priestess who’d lingered nearby, told her to have a burial mound raised by order of the queen.
Wordlessly, Apollo clambered back onto his horse. He didn’t have the mental fortitude or the strength in his legs to run away. Not after what he’d just encountered. He was amazed that Nadja wasn’t as heartless a creature as he’d first thought—she’d done that young man a kindness, and Apollo hoped he’d be able to find his way to the spirit world while in the shadow of Toriaken’s Shrine.
Nadja told him again that if he’d lied about the key, that man’s death was on his conscience.
Apollo didn’t need her to tell him that.
He kept his head down and stayed quiet as they approached the river, where a boat waited.
Soon enough, he’d have to face the queen.
22
The Memory
Fenn
Fenn woke up several times throughout the night, afraid that if he fell into too deep a sleep, he’d end up at the edge of the spirit world and come face to face with the Myr. Every time he drifted off, he jerked awake again, unable to rid the sensation of cold insects crawling across his skin. Although he was quite certain it was his sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on him, he couldn’t shake the feeling of something cold touching his flesh. By the time the sun rose the following morning, he was exhausted.
They were heading north today, across the deadlands and further into Porsenthia, Selys constantly pushing them to keep going.
Just the thought of it made him shudder in a way it hadn’t before the previous evening.
Selys had assured him that the deadlands would be safe if they travelled through the day, but Fenn couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from the previous night. Or had it been a Myrish creature?
Whatever it had been, he didn’t want to go anywhere near the place.
Perhaps he was simply taking Selys’s warning more seriously, but he wasn’t sure.
Thankfully, his headache had subsided, and he was able to get himself washed and dressed in relative comfort, despite his growing sense of unease.
If Jisyel hadn’t recovered, he doubted she and Calidra would be coming. But when he made his way downstairs, he found both of them already up and eating breakfast—a large plate of creamy mushrooms which smelled heavily of mustard, a chunk of seeded bread, and a bowl of sliced green fruit that he didn’t recognise.
The two of them already had their packed bags under their table—able to head off at a moment’s notice. Fenn shouldn’t have been surprised. Calidra wanted to get to her sister as quickly as possible, and why shouldn’t she? If he knew he had a sister, knew where she was, he’d probably have travelled all day and night to reach her.
Calidra was chasing answers just as much as he was.
Already, half a dozen patrons were dotted around the tables, eating quietly and talking in low voices. He paid them no mind and approached Calidra and Jisyel’s table, stifling a yawn.
‘Fenn. You’re up early.’ Calidra nodded at him, both hands wrapped around a large mug of steaming coffee.
‘Have you seen Selys or Varlot?’
Calidra shook her head. ‘Haven’t seen Varlot since last night. Maybe he’s at the shrine?’
‘He…went to the shrine?’ Had he misheard?
Jisyel nodded, her cheeks reddening as she ate another mouthful of breakfast.
‘And spent the whole night there?’
‘It’s possible.’ Calidra took another sip from her mug.
He sat down at their table and peered at their food. It was unappetising, especially as his stomach had been in knots all night. ‘How’re you feeling Jisyel?’
‘Much better. Foot aches a bit, but I can walk on it now without hobbling!’ Jisyel smiled at him through a mouthful of mushrooms. ‘That medicine worked wonders. Thanks again for getting it for me.’
If Jisyel was eating, she was definitely on the mend. But Calidra’s words about Varlot being at the shrine worried him.
Alnothen had warned Varlot he wasn’t welcome—the man was going to get himself hurt or worse. And Fenn needed him. What was Varlot thinking going to the dragon’s shrine?
Fenn wondered if it had anything to do with Alnothen’s accusations.
He sighed. He’d been patient ever since Calidra and Jisyel had brought him to Bragalia. He’d begged for help, pleaded not to be left to fend for himself. Selys was helping her spirit more than him, he knew that, but the priestess
might also be able to lead him to answers. Varlot was the only one who seemed to be there for him. Who wanted to make sure he was okay, and recovered his memories.
So why was Varlot doing something stupid like going directly to Alnothen and putting that journey in peril?
Fenn would have left the area as quickly as he could, if the roles were reversed. Yes, he was curious, but even he understood a clear warning when he saw one.
He glanced at the door, considered going into the woods himself to find Varlot. Then again, he probably shouldn’t race off without Selys. If she came in to find him gone again, she’d likely pin him to the ground with her glaive. Although he wanted to laugh at the image, he was too worried about Varlot to even let a smile grow on his lips.
‘I hope you aren’t thinking about running off again,’ Calidra warned.
He tried to push his face into the epitome of innocence. ‘What? Why would you think that?’
‘We could’ve done with you last night. Where did you go off to, anyway? I was looking for you for ages.’
Fenn wasn’t sure what was wrong with having some time by himself for once. Plus, Varlot had essentially given him permission to go. ‘Just exploring the town.’
‘Fenn. It isn’t safe for you to be wandering around.’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? There’s no-one here. No Inquisitors.’
‘But we’re in Porsenthia now,’ Jisyel said gently, ‘there’s more risk of you being spotted by an Inquisitor. We’re in the seat of the Iron Crown’s power. There are more of them here than in Bragalia.’
Fenn frowned, frustrated. He wasn’t a prisoner. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. ‘I’m fine. What did you need me for, anyway? I didn’t think there was much I could do to help, the state you were in, Jisyel.’
‘Yes but what if an Inquisitor had strolled into town and arrested you? None of us would have known,’ Calidra said.
Fenn huffed, his frustration rising. ‘I’m not a child, Calidra! I know I’m Myr-touched. None of you let me forget it. Is it so bad for me to look around when we had a few hours to spare? What if there was someone here who knew me? I might’ve found a friend or relative?’
‘And how likely is that? Everywhere you’ve been has been new.’
Before he could retort, Selys opened the inn door with a bang and walked inside, every step creaking on the wooden floor. ‘Good morning,’ she greeted, joining them. ‘Everything’s packed and ready to go, save your personal effects. Glad to see you’re looking better, Jisyel.’
‘The apothecary had decent medicine.’
Selys nodded. ‘Good. And not a moment too soon. We ought to get going as soon as you’ve finished. Come on, eat up, eat up.’
Fenn turned to her. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Alnothen is…unhappy.’
‘Yeah, I guessed that when we got here. But why rush off now? Varlot isn’t even—’
‘Varlot is the one causing her…irritability. Alnothen is kind, with patience beyond most spirits. But trust me when I say we shouldn’t outstay our welcome.’ The priestess’s gaze lingered on the doorway, as if she expected something terrible to follow in behind her at any second.
‘If Varlot is the one causing it, shouldn’t we wait for him?’ Fenn asked, unwilling to race off again after he’d worked so hard to regain Varlot’s trust. It felt like their group was constantly on the verge of splitting up, which made him uncomfortable. He didn’t care for raised voices, high emotions. It reminded him of being helpless—like he’d been in the bog on the island; against the Myrish spirit in Ballowtown; against Inquisitors and others afraid of lost souls—afraid of people like him. ‘We should all leave at the same time, shouldn’t we? We got here together, we should go together.’
‘I have no doubt Alnothen’s fury will lessen when he’s gone. But while she’s angry, we should make ourselves scarce. And we’ll want to make good time across the deadlands.’
At the mention of their destination, Fenn’s stomach turned. He’d been curious about the Myr, desperate to learn more. Now? Now, he was just as afraid of them as everyone else. And he couldn’t shake that feeling of ice growing across his skin.
Had it just been from seeing that woman the previous night?
Fenn shook the worry away and lifted his chin. He had to take a stand. ‘I don’t want to go without him.’
Selys raised an eyebrow. ‘Fenn, you don’t know what the wrath of a spirit is like. It’s not something you want to experience. Not as bad as corrupted spirits, mind, but their anger is as terrifying as it gets.’
Fenn shook his head. ‘I do know what it’s like to be alone, though. To have people think the worst of you. I’m not going without him.’ He refused to budge on this, and ignored Calidra’s stare—though he thought it was one of incredulity rather than annoyance.
Selys held his gaze for a moment. ‘Fenn, I want peace as much as you do. But I’m ready to leave. We need to reach the Nethal Mountains as soon as we can. We have to find out what we can about what the Myr are doing. Only you can help me with that, and we’ve already realised you’re short on time. We need to leave, now. Even Jisyel is ready to go.’
‘I’m not going without Varlot. I barely managed to convince him to come with us in the first place!’
Selys sighed, more in frustration than resignation. ‘What you might find out in the mountains, Fenn, is greater than one man, or one friendship. We’re talking about the Myr. About all of Tassar. That is more important than anything else. The dragons are the Guardians of Tassar, spirits of life, of guidance and protection. Without them, we are nothing.’
Fenn understood what she was saying. Knew that if the worst happened, he’d not only lose his own life—a looming threat that he’d done his best to ignore thus far—but the Iron Crown would lose vital knowledge that could protect them against the Myrish resurgence. ‘Give me an hour. Please.’
The priestess huffed and pulled out her glaive, inspecting it. With a quick movement, she smacked the flat of the shaft across his shoulder. ‘Fine. But no longer. If I have to push you the whole way there with this blade, I will.’
He yelped in surprise. Clutching his shoulder—it only stung a little—Fenn nodded. ‘I’ll get my things.’
He stood up and headed back upstairs. After re-securing his pack as soon as he reached his room, he stared out the window, at the strange bark on the trees and the lush foliage that surrounded the inn.
Varlot. What was he doing?
Fenn couldn’t leave it. He had to do something. Hurrying downstairs again, he raced through the tavern on the ground floor, and out the main door before anyone could stop him.
Cool and fresh, the morning air was a welcome relief, and the large canopy above only let in thin streaks of sunlight. The shrine shouldn’t be too hard to find. He cast his gaze around—there were more people up and about now than there had been yesterday afternoon or evening. Most came from a deeper part of the woodland, where there were fewer buildings. Many were farmers or gardeners who wore long, knee-high boots and carried baskets of fruit and vegetables under their arms.
Fenn was about to head off, when one man stood out among the crowd of people. ‘Varlot!’
The former general glanced up at the sound of his name being called. His eyes were red, his skin sunken around his cheekbones. ‘Fenn? That you, lad?’ His voice was rough.
‘Varlot! Were you at the shrine all night?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Varlot approached him slowly, a stiffness in his limbs that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t look Fenn in the eye.
‘Calidra said you’d been there. Selys wants to head off. But we can wait an hour if you haven’t had time to rest?’
Varlot shrugged, and a small tuft of brown fur fluttered away from the edges of his cloak. ‘Been up three days without sleep before. This ain’t a problem for me.’
‘But…you do need to sleep?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I didn’t sleep last night, so I’ll sleep ano
ther night instead.’ His tone was sharper than usual.
‘If you’re sure?’
Varlot rummaged around in a bag slung over one shoulder and pulled out a short sword sheathed in leather. ‘Got this for you. Might have to use it, places we’re going.’
Fenn caught the weapon in both hands as Varlot threw it towards him, and stared at it in wonder. ‘For me?’
Varlot grunted in reply. ‘Told you I’d teach you how to swing a sword.’
It took Fenn a moment to remember his voice. ‘T—Thank you!’
‘Ah. There you are.’ Calidra said from the entrance to the inn. She looked Varlot up and down once, her expression dark. Her gaze flicked to Fenn, and to the sword in his hands, but she said nothing.
Fenn was relieved at that, though he could have sworn she took a breath as if she was going to say something.
‘Heard Selys wants to get going? Deadlands’ll be horrible to cross, but I guess it’s the quickest way up through Porsenthia.’ Varlot said, some of his old strength returning to his voice, though he still sounded annoyed. ‘You don’t wanna bump into whatever the Myr left behind at night.’
Calidra pursed her lips. ‘No. Good thing we have you and Selys with us.’
Fenn let out a sigh. He didn’t know what Varlot had done all night, but from the sounds of things, they’d have a long day of walking ahead of them. He could ask his questions then.
Although Fenn had already seen the deadlands, they were astonishingly different in daylight than they had been the night before. Under the cover of darkness, the place had seemed quiet, magical. Like someone deep asleep, their breaths the only movement.
Under the harsh sun, however, it was intimidating. And now he was at the edge, about to step out onto it, a significant portion of his courage left him.
Fenn hadn’t realised—perhaps he’d not seen it—but a fine, shadowy mist clung to the cracked ground like dew clung to grass. The shadow had grown thicker the closer they travelled to the edge of the trees, and with it, a deep sense of foreboding. He was amazed he’d not seen it the previous night, but he supposed shadows were impossible to see in the dark.