Fuse the pendant with my blood? What was he talking about? I heard someone behind me. “… how did she know to keep it from being removed?” And someone else. “… who even left it with her?”
It came together then, the feeling I’d had when I woke and placed it around my neck, the part of the dream I’d shaken off as I stood before the basin washing up, cleaning the blood from my hands, from the pendant. I wanted to explain, tell of what I’d seen in the dream, but it was foggy and I was too slow to pull it into thought.
I was too late; they had already passed judgment on me. Harsh judgment. The deep voice boomed with finality. “… convicted of practicing dark magic…”
The elder’s staff slammed against its wood base, echoing into the tumult of discord rising behind me. I reached out my hand to plead for mercy, to beg to be given a chance to explain, and he began to list my lineage for the records. I was flooded with fury at the injustice as I heard my mother’s name and my outstretched hand became a fist.
The speaker’s voice cut off. He grabbed his throat as the other council leaders rushed to him. His choking face stared directly at me, unquestionably an accusation, and I realized with a start that he was right. I was cutting off his windpipe, as if it were there in my outstretched fist. I released my grip.
He was surrounded now, and the room was filled with a roar of commotion and terror. My ears rang sharply. I had to look away from it all. When I turned, I caught my reflection in one of the larger mirrors, but it wasn’t me. No, it must be me, but unrecognizable.
Not unrecognizable, a voice inside me whispered. My hair was dark and windblown. The bell sleeve of the long white gown hung from my still outstretched arm. It was the dream, alive and here. The pendant against my chest seemed to glow at my revelation.
I ran.
As I raced from the chamber, I couldn’t tell if anyone had even noticed. They all appeared to be staring at the speaker but, regardless, I concentrated furiously on not being followed. Do not catch me, do not find me, let me go, I was almost chanting in my thoughts. Out the building, out of the village, running as fast as I could, I kept thinking it over and over and over. I didn’t know where I would go, I just wanted away.
I found myself heading in the same direction I had the day before. But hiding in a briar patch wouldn’t work this time. They would come for me. As I frantically tried to decide where to go, my previous conclusion snaked through my mind. They would find me if they wanted to. There was no stopping them. I had no magic, no tracking skills, no clue.
I stopped running. My heart pounded, the wind cutting against the damp sweat on my skin. I wanted to understand what had just happened, but I couldn’t process it. It was just too painful. I was confused, drained to the point of exhaustion. I had no way out. When they found me, I would have to surrender. I could see no other option.
No one came.
I wasn’t fool enough to go back voluntarily, but for some reason, they hadn’t followed. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had nothing outside of home, outside of the village. I didn’t even know where to go, didn’t know where I was. It was just another clearing outside of the only town I’d ever known, the only town I remembered knowing.
I wandered toward the briar patch, finding it easily. It hadn’t been far, despite my exhaustion. I crawled through the narrow path I’d made the previous time. It hadn’t seemed such a tight fit in only pants. I settled in, jerking a length of skirt free from the thorns with a spray of colorless beads.
Brushing the loose dirt off the papers I had buried, I laid the soiled documents across my lap and untied the laces binding them together. I stared at the words on the ancient parchment, unable to believe what I was reading was true. It had to be; it was signed with the official seal, staring back at me from the smudged white fabric of my skirt, the letters on the page as real and words as patent as they could be. The documents held the details of a trial, and not only a trial, a punishment. The punishment of Francine Katteryn Glaforia, found guilty of practicing dark magic.
Her sentence included some sort of service to council and a spell binding her from using magic of any kind except practical. I was dumbfounded. It had never crossed my mind before, but as I considered it, searching for proof the documents were wrong, I realized Aunt Fannie had never used magic for anything but service. It hadn’t seemed unusual to me, it was just the way it had always been. And besides, I could barely do anything aside from lighting candles.
Was this why council was so quick to accuse me of practicing dark magic? It was rarely even discussed and never tolerated. What had Fannie done?
I flipped through more of the pages, realizing something was out of place. It didn’t make sense official documents about Fannie would be among those relating to the apparent extinction of the northern clans. And why had all the documents I’d found about the tragedy been separated, mixed up, and missing pages? I tried to sort it out, but found there were other council documents there too.
I kept reading, quickly scanning for something of interest. My eyes caught on his name a second before my mind recognized it… Chevelle Vattier. As I backed up to read, my shock and disbelief turned to fury before I could even finish the page.
Chevelle Vattier had been a volunteer watcher. A Council spy. He had volunteered to watch me.
Swift, white-hot anger flooded through me and the pages I held burst into flames. The brush around me caught next, burning away as I stood to push free of the blazing patch of briars. They had set a watcher on me. Why? Because Fannie had practiced dark magic? Were they afraid she’d teach me? I’d show them dark magic. I’d learn and go back… But how? How could I learn without a teacher?
Chevelle.
The fire died as I thought of the concern he’d shown me in the clearing, the tender moment we’d shared. With one word, the flames caught again, burning with a vengeance through the field. Watcher. None of it had been real.
He was a watcher, he’d volunteered to watch me, to keep me in line.
So I’d teach myself, take the risk and learn the magic without guidance. What did I have to lose? The plan was formed: I’d practice until I was strong enough to return to the village. There was nothing holding me back. Nothing to do but this one thing.
I spotted a small toad as it leapt across the clearing in a desperate attempt to escape the inferno. I concentrated on it, willing it to change. Its wide body started to swell, sides bubbling out, puffing it into a tiny green balloon. It did not transform into that monarch butterfly I had imagined. It burst, spewing entrails across the hem of my dress.
My head fell into my hands as I groaned.
It took a while, but the anger eventually faded to a point where I realized I’d need a new plan. I couldn’t help but regret the flames had consumed the documents that had caused all this to begin with. I should have fully read them first.
My heart tripped at the sound of cracking tinder beneath boot across the clearing. The fire had burned out, but the ashes were plenty evidence I’d been here. I ducked under the cover of a large spruce and watched. Chevelle walked through the tree line and my jaw clenched tight against a silent curse.
He was alone. He kept walking as he looked my direction, surveying the damage from the fire. I was convinced he would know it had been me, but he didn’t stop or even slow. It made no sense. Why hadn’t he investigated further? Was he not here looking for me?
He was my watcher and I was missing. So where else would he be going?
Before I had, regrettably, torched the documents, I had seen Junnie noted as his contact. My pulse sped at the idea that he might be going to her, to get her help in finding me. If he was my watcher, I’d be his responsibility, and she was the only one who knew me at all aside from Fannie. He was a good fifty yards farther as I considered.
My feet were moving before I’d actually decided to follow him. My determination faltered. How far should I go? What if he wasn’t going to find Junnie? And then I thought, What else do you have t
o do, sit here and blow up frogs? It was all the convincing I needed. Slinking out from the branches of the spruce, I crept low along the trees and brush as I followed my watcher north.
Trails
Chevelle kept a quick pace and I found myself struggling to keep up. Unlike me, he wasn’t dodging between rocks and trees, bending out of sight and watching the ground to keep from breaking twigs while he tried to keep from being spotted. I cursed the formal dress I’d been dragging as it snagged on a low-lying thicket, flinging another string of beads into the soft dirt. I considered dumping it, but didn’t think it was the best idea to be sneaking around the forest unclothed. After crossing a few soggy patches of moss, the hem was damp and darkened. I might have ripped some of the excess material off, but Chevelle’s movement wasn’t leaving me time for that.
Finally, just before nightfall, he approached a small village. It didn’t look like more than half a dozen structures scattered against the base of a large hill. He dropped the simple pack he’d been carrying beside a tree and hunched down as he slowed his pace. The stance mirrored mine, and gave me pause. He was sneaking into this village.
I watched as he crept around the back of a small hut, knowing that if he was hiding, I definitely didn’t want to get caught here. He leapt into a rear window and I followed as low and slow as I could. When I reached the last tree I could use for cover, I darted up against the hut and peered through a gap in the twigs that patched it together. They were whispering.
“… mustn’t let them find you… shouldn’t have come…”
It was dim inside, but I caught a glimpse of a figure through the wall. Junnie.
Chevelle was whispering his reply to her, and though I couldn’t quite hear, he must have given her a short account of the morning’s events. I moved closer to the window, finding a larger gap there.
“Were you able to track her?” Junnie asked in a low voice.
“Not exactly. She’s following me.”
Heat flooded my face. I couldn’t believe he’d fooled me again. I didn’t care what else they had to say. I stood and marched away, fuming at the idea that both of them were in on it. They might have been council, but it didn’t stop the feeling of betrayal. They’d lied to me, acted as if they’d cared. I was done with them. With everyone. I wanted as far away from all of it as possible.
But I didn’t make it far. Exhaustion caught up with me a few miles later and I found an old oak tree, sliding down its massive trunk to rest my aching legs. I’d never run so far in my life and my head throbbed. I was seething with anger and frustration and the feeling of being ensnared. I didn’t sleep. I sat, leaned against the tree, like a petulant child. I held a hand up and flipped a flame, tossing it up and down, rolling it above my palm. I was hungry, but I didn’t eat. Too stubborn and angry to go find food, too resentful I didn’t have the magic to bring it to me. Yes, like a child. A foolish, sulky child.
Bright sun and chirping birds tore into my finally still senses. My eyes squinted open as I resisted the urge to stop the birds. It was the first time I’d slept away from my bed; disoriented, I glanced around. It didn’t help. I’d never been far from home and the new landscape was unsettling. But when I looked away, I noticed the neatly stacked pile of fabric and loaf of bread that had been positioned beside me. I silently cursed the watchers who had apparently found me during the night.
I didn’t see them anywhere, so I assumed they’d left me out here as punishment. Some part of me wanted to burn the pile for spite, but my stomach overruled the thought. Reaching out to grab the bread, and then, since I had already defied my belligerence, the stack of clothes, I stood to find a creek to clean up and finally get out of this ridiculous dress.
It took a moment to locate the trickle of water, but the creek was only a short distance away. I walked down the softened earth to where the water had pooled and knelt, leaning over to splash my face.
Panic shot through me as someone looked back at me. I nearly bolted upright, planning to flee, but caught myself. The woman in the reflection was me. That was my dark hair and flushed skin. Cautiously leaning over the pool once more, I convinced myself it was only the dark water, a trick of light and shadow. My eyes were not that green, my hair not black. I straightened and held a lock of it forward to examine. It shimmered in the bright sunlight, glossy black. My hand fell away.
Maybe I could just wash it out. Nauseous, I stepped into the pool, sinking beneath its surface. A thought crossed my mind that was darker than the rest, that said maybe I should stay under, but the pressure to draw air stung my lungs. I could not drown the desire to breathe.
I pushed through the water, gasping and cold, struggling to climb from the muck as I stood and walked out. I was drenched, the material of the long gown soaked and heavy and more uncomfortable than ever. I loosened the wet corset ties and dropped the dress into a pile at my feet, shivering as I stepped free of it and onto a rock. I grabbed a shirt from the pile, and then the slim pants, aware of how nice the fabric felt, how good the cut. A leather vest laced over the top. It seemed they were tailored for me. I’d never had such luck making my own clothes. These were trim and fit, made for traveling.
Not that I knew where I was going. My desire to trail Chevelle had been smashed, but there was no way I could return to the village. I glanced around. Still no sign of the watchers as I slid my shoes on. I should have kept running during the night, but I’d been too exhausted.
There was a pack in the pile as well, but I didn’t have anything aside from a soaking wet dress. I stretched it over a low branch to dry, and the pouch I had hidden before the trial fell free.
I sat on the rock, picking up the small, weathered bag. I’d carried it for days now and still didn’t know what was inside. I pulled the binding loose to dump the contents into my hand: a small dark ruby, a silver medallion, and a tiny scroll. I held the stone up to the light. Aside from the depth of color, it didn’t seem extraordinary. I also examined the medallion, but didn’t recognize the emblems. Dropping them back into the pouch, I opened the scroll, reading the first line of the tiny script, “Fellon Strago Dreg.”
Electricity shot through my hands and I dropped the scroll. My hands felt like they had been scorched. The unmistakable stench of charred flesh turned my stomach and I twisted my palms inward to inspect the damage. There were curving lines and symbols covering the skin. Burned into them. I gasped. I’d been around fire magic for as long as I could remember. It had never burnt me or any other elf as far as I knew; it would only burn what it was meant to burn.
I glanced back down at the scroll, realizing the fire magic had been meant to burn. I should never have read the words aloud. I carefully picked it up and rolled it back in place, certain I would never read from it again. Binding the pouch as I had found it, I tucked it into the pack. When I checked my hands to decipher the lines, I realized I was seeing a map. Yes, it was burned into my palms, but it was a map. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would have a ridiculous spell like that, and then it struck me that it had come from the vault, from my own family’s things.
I bit down hard on my lip, fighting the impulsive urge that always got me into trouble. But I didn’t want to go back to the village, not ever. And I only had this one chance, this small moment before they came to retrieve me.
I grabbed the dress off the tree branch—the last evidence of me being here—and threw it into the pack. Swinging it around onto my back, I started to run. I didn’t know where I was or where the map would take me, but I finally had a purpose. There were mountains burned into my palms, and there was only one place to find mountains: In the north.
I couldn’t remember much of life before going to live with my aunt Fannie. The village and surrounding meadows and forests were the only home I’d had, the only place I’d known. It wasn’t exactly a comforting place, but there was something to be said for knowing where you were, where to find food, shelter, and water.
I’d been filled with determination when I’d started r
unning, concentrating on north and nothing else. But as I made my way, I became aware of the sheltered life I’d been living. The land here started to roll, the trees a deeper green, their trunks too narrow. It didn’t seem as if I’d gone that far, only half a day following Chevelle and then this time on my own. The changes here made me anxious to see the North.
I glanced at my palm once more. I thought I’d figured out most of the lines—creeks curving through the landscape, mountains a jagged ridge across the top—but there were still a lot of unanswered questions. My hand squeezed into a nervous fist, but I kept moving.
I tried not to think about all that had happened—not Fannie or the trial, not Junnie and especially not Chevelle. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. I couldn’t even imagine what lay in the mountains where I was heading, but there was no going back.
I wasn’t tired anymore, not as I had been every day since I’d been using magic. But I forced those thoughts away, counting steps as I ran. I was miles from home. A home I might never return to.
I pushed myself forward through the day, only stopping when I found a patch of sweet berries and a small, babbling creek. The berries were wild, small and much less palatable without the guiding hand of an elf, but the water I’d gathered from the stream was cool and refreshing. As evening approached, so grew the underlying discomfort with the idea of the coming darkness. Not that I hadn’t spent my share of time alone at home, just not alone in the middle of a strange forest outside. I might have run through the night and slept at day, but it made little sense to struggle out of fear.
It didn’t stop me from seeking out a decent shelter before nightfall, though. Slowing my pace, I gave the surroundings more attention.
The strangeness of the land was a little shocking, and I had to surrender the idea of finding a proper tree. But a half mile or so later, I came upon a suitable hollow in a low embankment guarded by the curling roots of a sycamore. It wasn’t a bad start, but I gathered some shrubbery to cover the entryway, the bitter stench of its sharp green leaves giving me a little more security—or at least the feeling of it. The sun hadn’t set when I’d finished lining the floor with vines, but I went ahead and settled in, sitting so I could see through an opening in the frond-covered entry.
[2018] Reign of Queens Page 35