Phae stared in horror.
The stranger watched the stroke of the axe, stepped inside it, and suddenly Trasen was on his back, slamming so hard the axe flew out of his hand. Before Trasen could do anything else, the stranger hauled him up and encircled his neck with his arm. The cowl raised as he looked up toward her. She could see the stranger’s scarred face, the quill-tipped dark hair, and ice blue eyes. The eyes stared right up at her menacingly.
Phae looked in his eyes and tried to connect with him to steal his memories away, but she sensed he was too far away. She had never attempted doing so with someone at that distance. She blinked but nothing happened.
Trasen’s eyes were panicked. He could not breathe. Then his whole body went slack.
Phae ran. She did not bother to hide her trail or attempt any trickery. She was running for her life, and she knew it. There was no mercy in those eyes. There was only determination. She was his prey. He was hunting her, not for any fault of her own that she could understand, but for some debt owed to someone else. What did it matter?
She ran, dodging trees and boulders. The trailhead split two ways and both were steep. One went higher into the mountains. She knew it would reach a ridgeline and then descend on the other side and there would be a river. A river could possibly help hide her tracks. She chose it instantly, her legs throbbing with pain as she continued up the mountainside. Tree limbs swatted at her as she clawed past them, trying to put distance between them. Was he torturing Trasen? Was he already dead? Her stomach threatened to heave with the thought. Guilt at abandoning him threatened to choke her. If he died, she would never forgive herself.
She did not dare to look back, even once. The feelings swirled inside her, bidding her to flee. She trusted the feelings. She should have trusted them earlier. Her legs strained with the pace, but she knew she would reach the summit soon, then it would be downhill to the river. That river was the farthest she had ever traveled in her life. They had camped at the river’s edge on a summer’s eve three years ago. Winemiller had warned them not to cross the river and enter the mountains on the other side. He said that it was dangerous on the other side. She would follow the river down the mountain then.
When she reached the summit, the sun was blazing with promise. The light blinded her momentarily and she stumbled and sagged to her knees, coughing so violently she vomited. Her legs trembled with the punishing pace. Her stomach was lurching again, and again she felt the fear. He was behind her. He was hunting her. The man with ice blue eyes. The eyes of someone without a soul.
“There are many things in this world that cannot be explained. There are an equal number of foolish theories that persist despite the evidence to the contrary. To kill a mistruth or an error is as good a service as, and sometimes even better than, the establishing of a new truth or fact.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Phae tripped and plunged into the stream, soaking her pants and cloak. As she struggled to her feet, a branch raked her cheek. She nearly tripped again, but managed to catch herself in time. Ahead there were few boulders to hide behind.
The steepness of the brook challenged her differently and the stones and boulders were treacherous enough. It slowed her to stay in the water, and so she decided to scrabble up the other bank and enter the dense woods for concealment. The sounds of nature around her were terrifying. Blue jays flapped and squawked and even the insects formed a cacophony of sound. Moths and butterflies flitted in the sunlight all around her. She swatted at them and tried to squeeze water from her drenched cloak as she walked. She followed the sound of the brook, knowing it would bring her back to the low country.
Her stomach was twisted and worried about Trasen. She knew going back would be foolhardy, but it was agony not knowing what had happened to him. Her ears strained for the sound of her pursuer. Her legs felt swollen and aching from the punishing pace. She was grateful to Master Winemiller for all the years of hard work. A weaker girl would have collapsed.