Frey Page 6

  Chapter Six

  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 running, 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.

  It was quiet, harder to fight the thoughts that were trying to creep in. I began to run songs through my head for distraction, mangling the lyrics and humming through the parts I couldn’t remember at all. My fingers tapped soundlessly into the dirt, until a flicker of movement just outside stopped me. I held my breath for what I was sure was impending, and painful, death, and saw it again.

  I released the breath, which was not, in fact, my last. A soft white rabbit loped in front of the bushes I’d posted for a doorway. My stomach was interested, but I’d never prepared meat. I’d only ever gathered berries and vegetables that someone else had grown. I didn’t have the first idea how to make a bow, let alone shoot one, and I’d never killed anything. Except plants. And a bird. But I had no idea if an animal killed by magic was edible. I thought of the thistle, its black roots, how it had turned to ash. The rabbit sniffed at the air in my direction and continued on its way, answering the matter for me.

  I was sitting in a hole, utterly alone, and it was beginning to get dark. Night bugs chittered, their high-pitched keens rising with the loss of light. I lit a thin flame to practice fire magic, leaning forward as I danced it back and forth above the ground. My control had progressed a good deal since my training had begun; it seemed almost easy to navigate a small flame. I smoothed it out into a line and traced arcs and then more intricate designs. The designs started to resemble portraits and I had to concentrate hard to keep from seeing them, so I focused on landscapes, but those grew from tiny village houses and trees to rolling hills and curving creeks. Before long, the hills rose to mountains that melted into unidentifiable monsters. I snuffed the flame with a wave and the den was black with night.

  Eventually, the clouds broke and the soft glow of moonlight filtered in through the opening. I leaned onto an elbow to examine the glistening patches of light on the skin of my outstretched hand, twisting it from day to night, pale to dark. Weary and trancelike, I lowered my head, tucking my arm back as a pillow, and fell into a deep sleep.