Crony hobbled down off the path, knowing it was already too late. When she reached the squirrel, only its tail could be seen amid the stinky, gurgling spume, flapping like a bushy flag. Shaking her head, Crony used her staff to fish it free. The puddle burped a growl in her direction then turned and fled, being averse to the taste of wood. The rodent’s skeleton had dissolved, leaving nothing but the furry appendage—the thickest end slimy with sludge. Crony tucked the tail behind her, into the rope belted around her waist, thinking to use it for trade in the black market.
She resumed her trek to the entrance. On the ravine’s side of the vine-cloaked opening, a dripping, jellylike trail of sunlight coated the trunks. Sun-smugglers from the night realm came often to gather the sticky, hot substance into jars for light and warmth. The warped magic of this place not only made light a commodity that could be gleaned, but also affected time and distance across the forest. The expanse should’ve taken weeks to traverse, but somehow the shifting ash acted as momentum—the clustering tree branches as propulsion—and a person could wander one end to the next in mere days while moving at a normal pace.
The witch drew her oversized hood tighter around her multiple gray braids in anticipation of the wide-open’s glare. Her form was human enough—discounting the obsidian horns, similar to a ram’s, spiraling out from either side of her head—but the likeness stopped there.
She had no irises, just pupils the color of swirling mud that spanned the entirety of her eyes. They offered a panoramic view and insights into the depths of a soul, but poor protection from brightness. And her translucent eyelids aided little in that respect. Of course, for an immortal creature who hadn’t a physical need for sleep, there was no real reason to begrudge her lack of traditional eyelids. It was the memory attached to losing them that caused her woe.
Serpentine briars slithered around her bare ankles and feet, gnawing at them with fang-like thorns in an effort to drag her off the path. She kicked them away, untouched. Her hide resembled an acorn’s cap—brown and rough with scales—and was near impenetrable.
Some said the same was true of her heart. Impenetrable.
She rumbled a laugh to distract from the ever-present twinge in her chest. If only the fools were right.
Using the skull impaled upon her staff to knock away the snapping briars that curtained the entrance, she plunged through, out of the ravine’s cloying stench and into the fresh air. Her hood shaded her eyes as she adjusted to the sunshine. Lifting the hem of her cloak, she made for the hilly outskirts of Eldoria’s township.
The castle’s highest ivory tower rose in the midst of a clearing, draped in soft white clouds. The usual golden banners that flapped atop each turret, emblazoned with a red-and-orange sun and an orange soaring bird, had been replaced with solid navy flags—mourning the great king’s death, honoring his noble life. Sentries, wearing long capes in the same navy fabric, were posted on regal blood-bay stallions at the gate and around the great white wall surrounding the castle. Traditionally, black might have been a more appropriate color, but Eldoria refused to use anything that would pay tribute to Nerezeth’s own black-and-silver banners.
Out of sight in the distance, soldiers practiced maneuvers—archery, hand-to-hand combat, and sword play—in preparation to return to the base of Mount Astra, where Nerezeth’s iron stairway descended into the earth. When all the roses’ roots had been ripped up under King Kiran’s command, the ground beneath became unstable. Now, with all the rain from the past several days, a muddy avalanche had sealed off the stairway and trapped the Nerezethites in their icy domain.
This unexpected event bought Eldoria time enough to reinforce the battlements, and shore-up the walls of the outer bailey. But it was only a temporary reprieve; Eldoria’s infantry planned to tunnel their way in. The distant scuff of hooves in the dirt, the clang of swords and shouting men, crackled on the air and drowned out the chirping birdsongs in the trees as proof. Retaliation for King Kiran’s murder had been ordered by Lady Griselda. A king’s blood for a king’s blood.
Orion, the king of Nerezeth, already laid abed dying. What good did it do to hasten the inevitable? Crony, of all creatures, knew the benefit of patience in these things.
She was troubled by how the war had been stirred anew. How King Kiran’s soldiers hauled away the lavender blooms. How they uprooted the one symbol of peace between the two kingdoms without considering the consequences.
Crony and her ilk would need to be wary now; they could ill afford to be captured with Lady Griselda as regent. The king’s sister bade no tolerance for anyone magically inclined who didn’t serve the castle. And, as Crony had learned lifetimes ago, there were sacrifices to be made when under the employ of any one kingdom. Thus, she dared not pledge fealty to any but herself. In the absence of King Kiran’s fair trials for all prisoners, such a refusal could warrant death. Or, in an immortal’s case, unrelenting torture.
The danger was an acidic burn on the back of her tongue.
A flash of vivid color caught Crony’s eye as she rounded a hill. She ducked beneath an outcropping of shrubbery, cringing when bits of glass in the bag at her waist chinked together. Parting the branches, she peered at the red-and-silver fox a few feet ahead, seated on his haunches and licking his paw. A flock of swans took to the sky, soaring on their daily sojourn to the Crystal Lake. The fox snapped to attention and watched them. One might think him hungry for flesh, but his craving was for flights of solitude—the wind streaming beneath hollow bones and fringed wings.
He called himself Elusion; Crony called him Luce. In their true ethereal form, sylphs were air elementals imperceptible to the naked eye. They stirred up trouble, enjoying the fruits of their mischief from an aerial view. Luce, however, was cursed aground, and could only take his bestial and human forms now. When Crony met him over twelve years ago, he’d been shunned by his own kind for losing his wings to the sylph elm in the royal gardens.
She befriended him because he made her smile—a courageous feat, considering her smiles could wilt flowers. And his otherworldly nature meant he assisted her dark occupation without complaint. They had a kinship, as his sins were as grim as her own.
Or so she let him believe . . .
No one in this sun-smote land knew of her gravest misstep; but there was one who had shared the experience and held that secret close, living beneath her feet in Nerezeth.
The fox’s unnatural scent—a mix of animal dander, man, and flying creatures—wafted toward Crony on the warm breeze, tickling her flat, slitted nose. Sensing her, he looked up—his orange eyes lit to embers of intelligence. His long muzzle parted on a grin that could double as a sharp-toothed snarl.
Crony slipped out from her hiding spot. “Good diurnal to ye.”
“Huh. Took you long enough,” the fox answered. No matter which form he chose to wear, the same baritone, silken voice always greeted her. “There’s only so much time can be spent preening parasites from one’s own tail.” He gave said ‘tail’ a swoosh and stood, shaking grass and dirt from his fur until he shined like a polished summer apple.
“Aye.” Crony stepped around her four-legged companion, her staff playfully batting the pendant around his neck—a talisman of protection formed of her own hair. “But we both know yer a fair bit too calloused for any parasite to latch upon.”
His silvery whiskers wriggled. “If that were true, you’d never have burrowed your way beneath my skin.”
Crony smiled, and the shin-high grass feathering her steps withered at the sight. She’d been the cohort of death for so long, there was a residue on her.
The fox sauntered soundlessly to catch up at her ankles. “I see you finally grew a tail of your own. Always knew you envied mine.” The direction of his amused gaze indicated the squirrel’s remains in her belt.
She snorted. “If ye can’t save the critter, ye salvage the remains.”
“Nicely done. Winkle should be interested in a trade.” That said, the fox’s triangular ears perked and he sniffed the air. Having a nose for gore and death made him a harrower witch’s ideal partner. “Our prey is just over the other side of the ridge there. Fresh meat, but ripening fast in this swelter.”
Crony nodded. The sun beat down, hot and unforgiving to those who spent most days in ash and shade. Yet even shade couldn’t offer an inkling of the peace they once had. Over seven hundred years gone by, and still she could remember the cool brush of moonlit air scented with jasmine and carrying the chirrups of crickets. Night had been her sanctuary—night and all its creatures.
Now Eldoria had only the day. The second twelve hours were no different from the first, save that singular softening of the sun after its east-to-west diurnal course, before it reversed its trajectory across the sky.